


Speak

by sbrant



Category: IT - Stephen King
Genre: Cunnilingus, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, First Time, Fluff, Light Angst, Multiple Orgasms, Mutual Pining, Oblivious Bill Denbrough, Public Sex, Recreational Drug Use, This is so soft, Unsafe Sex, Vaginal Fingering, the yearning in this one y'all
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-18
Updated: 2020-10-25
Packaged: 2021-02-23 11:28:01
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 33,835
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23877397
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sbrant/pseuds/sbrant
Summary: Bill tells Y/N a secret.
Relationships: Bill Denbrough/Reader
Comments: 6
Kudos: 37





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> It's been such a long time, how are you guys? I hope you and your loved ones are safe and healthy amid the COVID-19 pandemic, I'm sorry I haven't posted in a hot minute but hope this makes up for it and is a nice distraction from all of the crazy stuff happening! Leave a kudos or/and comment if you enjoyed :)

They hadn't meant spend their entire day in the Denbrough's living room, but it started raining after they ditched school to hang out in the clubhouse and he drove them back to his house.

Her birthday is before his and, much to his dismay, he hits every milestone later than his friends, so she had been driving him around for a while before he got his license. Since then, it's been the other way around and she hasn't minded it. Any excuse to spend time with him is fine by her, even if they both know it isn't necessary.

There's been many times in the past few months when he needed to get out of his house for a couple of hours, when it all began to close in on him, and he'd show up at her house to, literally, throw pebbles at her window. It was a common occurrence for them, so it never took her by surprise to look out her window and see him there, nor would it take long for her to slip on a pair of shoes and a jacket to meet him.

Rain patters against the sliding glass door and the sun hides between clusters of grey clouds as they sit together on the living room rug, talking quietly over the movie on the television screen. The clothes she borrowed are a little loose. His shirt is long on her, but still fits decently, and she opted for wearing it like a dress.

Seeing her in his clothes when she walked out of the bathroom had more of an effect on him than he'd care to admit. His face had gone red as soon as she sat down beside him and cuddled up close. Richie would tease him endlessly if he said anything, but he couldn't help how his heart skipped a beat at the sight of her all wrapped up in his clothes, resting with her head in his lap with her eyes glued to the movie. As of late, everything she does seems to warrant this reaction from him.

They're no longer cuddled together now that they're halfway through their second movie, since he got up to get a glass of water while she was putting it on, but they're still sat closer than usual and their thighs brush with every slight movement. The sound of her voice brings him out of his focus on the movie, though.

"Movie sex is always so unrealistic," She rambles, eyes not leaving the screen where the two leads finally end up together, "No one does anything awkward or fucks up and somehow the women can come unrealistically fast with zero foreplay. It's all so fake."

Bill's eyes flicker back and forth between her and the film.

They never tend to go into topics like this, at least not when it's her and him alone, and he has to think for a moment before responding to what she said.

He isn't exactly an expert on the topic of sex and all he knows is from what his friends have told him, what he's seen in porn, and movies, which doesn't equal having experience. Similarly to every other milestone in life, most of the losers have had sex before him and apparently she has too, which he hadn't expected. Not because she didn't have options, in his eyes, she's one of the prettiest girls he's met, but she's so reserved when it comes to this, he figured she never had. Except now it sounds like she's speaking from personal experience and he doesn't know what to do with the feelings that causes.

It's not like he hasn't thought of her in that context, quite the opposite, actually, but he assumed she never had a boyfriend or done anything because of her discretion. All of their other friends are loud and open about it, but the only person she talked to about it was Bev.

He shifts uncomfortably where he sits for a moment, then opens his mouth to speak, "I guess...I kind of t-t-t-thought it was rom-mantic. Real life has enough fuck-ups, you kn-n-now?"

He knows it doesn't matter, but can't help but feel embarrassed. It's starting to seem like everyone but him has done it at this point and he has to pretend to know what he's talking about when conversations like these present themselves. Even though Richie is the comedian of their group, constantly looking for new ways to bust his balls, he's the only one he's felt comfortable talking to about this sense of insecurity surrounding his virginity. With most things, it's her he'd talk to about such personal topics, but this felt different.

He's had a crush on her for a while and that's why he couldn't open up about it. Cause what would happen if she knew and thought he was even more of a loser than he already is?

The sound of the TV and rain fills every moment of silence that falls between them, but he still feels it as if that silence was there in full force, surrounding them as he meets her gaze.

"Maybe," Y/N says, considering it, then lets her head fall to rest against where her arm is propped onto the couch, "but I think the awkward moments are romantic. In movies, everything's always so perfect, but life isn't always like that. I mean, the first time you had sex, you probably did a lot of awkward shit, right? I just wish these scenes were a little more realistic."

His face flushes at what she said and she watches him shake his head slightly, as if reluctant to reply. They're never this shy around each other, so she's curious about what he's about to say. He's always comfortable around her and this couldn't be more of a shift in behavior. The only time he ever blushes is when she gives him kisses on the cheek as a goodbye when they hang out or when he can't get a word out and starts to get embarrassed, not at times like this when it's just her and him alone in the comfort of his living room.

Everything else has turned into background noise now that he tries to speak, averting his eyes from where he anticipates a judgmental face.

He says softly, "I h-h-haven't done it yet, suh-so I wouldn't kn-n-n-now."

If he were facing her, the look on her face probably would've made every thought swirling around in his head ten times worse, but she's quick to make the slight shock that lingers there disappear as quickly as it came.

It's not judgement that fuels that shock, though, it's only because she's surprised that he hasn't yet, not cause she thinks less of him for it. She's always had a thing for Bill and found, much to her amusement, that all of the losers have too at one point or another.

Except her feelings for him have yet to fade. In fact, they've only strengthened as time goes on. With every goofy smile he makes and afternoons spent talking, laughing, and dancing around what they feel for each other, she let herself further dissolve into the consuming desire of the crush she's been nursing since they were twelve. Everyone has their flaws, but he has always been damn near perfect to her and that's why she looked so shocked. The fact that no one, not even one of the losers, has jumped at the chance to be with him stuns her.

Yet, for his sake, she hides it and tries to keep her expression neutral. He's blushing harder than ever and it takes effort for her to supress the urge to smile at how beautiful she thinks he is, which only adds to her confusion surrounding him being a virgin. She would've thought that he'd have plenty of options, but, then again, she's in love with him, idealizes him, and that may skew her perception of things.

 _Jesus, Y/N, keep it together_ , a voice in the back of her mind scolds. Thinking about Bill and sex in the same context seems to have her mind scattered while she should be figuring out what to say next.

"Oh," She utters the first word that comes up.

As soon as it fell from her mouth, his head turned right back in her direction and his wide-eyed gaze already has her rushing to amend it.

"I just thought-" a shake of the head, "I'm sorry, I didn't mean to make you uncomfortable or anything, I just assumed..."

Bill can practically feel his heartbeat pounding in his head. He feels so pathetic. Of course she hadn't meant to make him uncomfortable, she's _Y/N_ , she's more compassionate than anyone he knows. It goes without saying that she'd never intend to hurt him, _ever_ , and he knows that. His shoulders fall with a heavy exhale as he shifts in his place to face her, forcing himself to maintain eye contact.

"It's ok-k-k-kay. Everyone else has alr-ready done it by n-now, it's normal, you d-duh-don't have to apologize for assuming."

There's a pause between them, their eyes fixed on one another, then she shakes her head and lets that gaze go soft with sympathy. And that sympathy, had it come from anyone else or been expressed in any other way, would've felt patronizing, but it doesn't coming from her. He knows she's genuine and honest, so it comforts rather than condescend.

"Not everyone, it's normal to be a virgin at our age. I mean, you're only a senior, it's not like there's a time limit or something," She says.

And she's right, there isn't an expiration date on things that vary with each individual person, like a topic as intimate as having sex, but it's easier to say than believe. There's this idea people have that if you haven't had sex by the time your eighteen or go to college, you're somehow behind schedule or abnormal. And it's hard to correct himself when he perpetuates that idea with every self-deprecating insult he may hurl at himself, because even if he knows it isn't true, those negative thoughts are inevitable.

The couch cushion is soft where he lays his head back against it and looks over at her with admiring eyes, the nervousness still there, but significantly subdued now that they've broken the ice.

He shrugs.

"I kn-nuh-now that...I get that it doesn't m-m-matter, but I still f-feel like a loser for it, I guess. Not everyone our age has had s-s-s-sex, but a lot have, you too, I'm assuming."

Her response is immediate, "Yeah. I have, so trust me when I say it doesn't change anything. You having sex doesn't define whether or not you're cool or change anything about you. And, for the record, I already think you're cool anyway," Y/N goes on, scooting closer to him, "but seriously, don't take it so hard...at some point, some lucky girl is gonna come along and you're gonna laugh at the fact that this got under your skin so much."

The space between them is buzzing with electricity and he has yet to stop blushing, especially since he can't stop thinking about that last bit. _"Some lucky girl,"_ said as if she meant it, envious-almost-of his hypothetical lover, but he doesn't know if he's imagining it. Her eyes are ripe with sincerity and, miraculously, he believes her. How could he not? She's one of his closest friends in life and they thrive on honesty-which is ironic if one were to consider that they're both sharing the same secret about their true feelings for one another-so he has no reason not to.

She, on the other hand, can't form a coherent thought as she gets lost looking at him. While all he hears on repeat in his head is: _some lucky girl, some lucky girl, some lucky girl, some lucky girl_ -all she can think about is how badly she longs to be that lucky girl in question. As juvenile and childish as it may be, she always fantasized about him being her first before the actual guy came along. Bill had always been so caring, so charismatic, who wouldn't want it to be him?

The words left unsaid still linger on the tip of her tongue, but she forces them to stay put for now, since this isn't the time nor place. He's the one to break their eye contact, smiling softly and turning away.

"T-Thank you."

She settles back into the position she'd previously been in, offering back, "You're welcome."

They go back to watching their movie.

-

His room always has a comforting warmth to it whenever she hangs out with him and today isn't an exception.

They retired to his bedroom soon after the movie ended, hands brushing as they walked up the stairs together and ranted about how horrible it ended up being. The sound of her laughing at one of his jokes about it made his stomach flutter with that familiar excitement he gets whenever they're together and he almost had the courage to connect their hands when they brushed up against each other. But he didn't and continued shying away from his feelings the same way he always does, too unsure and timid.

It contradicts his disposition with everything else in life, but he's cautious with his feelings for her. He tends to be impulsive and reckless and had to teach himself to hesitate ever since he lost Georgie, but not with her. They've always felt like they were one wrong word or touch from damning the consequences and finally hooking up. It's been worse than ever lately...

Y/N is stretched out on his bed, reading one his latest stories (since he always asks her for a second opinion on them) and her clothes, or lack thereof, are distracting him from the essay he's working on. Sitting at his desk, he can't stop the memory of the last time he looked over at her from flooding his mind.

His flannel hangs low enough to cover her underwear, but, now that she's laying down, it sits just high enough on her hips to give him a teasing glimpse of what's underneath. When he last looked at her, he was handing the story over and tried to be inconspicuous with his staring. Her panties were peeking out from underneath the fabric of his shirt ever so slightly and one of her legs was bent lazily at the knee in a way that made him fantasize about how it might feel to run his hand up the inside of her thigh...

When she glanced up at him, the look on her face was so sweet that his indecent thoughts felt out of place, but if he knew that her thoughts are ten times worse, he'd feel less embarrassed. Similarly to him, she's been too distracted to focus since they came upstairs to pass time until their diner "date" with the losers later.

When his back is turned, she can't help but peek over the stapled book of notebook paper at him. It could be the conversation they had earlier or it could be the weed, since he rolled a joint ten minutes ago and it wasn't like she was gonna say no when he offered, or it could be a combination of both. She's betting on the latter.

It was hard to suppress the daydreams she's having about him sober, but after taking a couple hits and passing the joint back and forth between them, she can't stop them. In fact, she doesn't _want_ to stop them, she willingly entertains every single one.

When Bill turned around the second time to hand it back to her, she imagined taking his hand to pull him closer and those thoughts escalated significantly from there on out.

Anytime he'd do anything, like take a sip from his water glass or stretch, it would set her off. It was as if his very existence was a catalyst and the rest was beyond her control, the rest was her years-long crush taking the reins. One of the thoughts makes her mouth run dry, drier than it already is. She pictures him having her right there on his desk; their hands hastily shoving the papers and stationary onto the floor in favor of putting her in their place, the edge of the desk would hit the wall in a steady cadence, and the sounds he'd make for her would-

It makes her press her thighs together tightly, like he'd somehow know that she's getting turned on by the thought of him if she didn't.

All afternoon, their conversation downstairs has stuck with her, especially knowing that they have an empty house to themselves for another hour or two...It shouldn't, but the fact that Bill is a virgin is confusing her. He is, by all means, beautiful and not just physically, but in every other way too. If he of all people can't find someone, who can? With her abundance of thoughts on the topic and the conversation from earlier, she debates being upfront with it.

He's muttering something under his breath that she can't pick up, most likely reading over the closing paragraph of his essay, then pauses to take a sip of water when she asks.

"Do you wanna have sex?"

The only immediate response she gets is him choking on the mouthful of water he was drinking, followed by a couple of coughs as he tries to get a breath of air down. He managed to avoid soaking his essay, which he just spent an hour handwriting, in the water, but did spill it down the front of his shirt. Thats not what he's focused on after her question though.

He has half a mind to pinch himself because he's not sure if he's awake at this point and this seems more dream than reality. So, he does it, quickly, making sure that she doesn't see him do it, and it turns out he's wide awake. He can hardly keep up with his own racing thoughts- _the girl I've had a crush on since I was fourteen years old just asked me if I want to have sex with her, what the fu_ -and time stretches on forever as she waits for him to respond. But it's only been ten seconds at most by the time he turns in his seat to look at her.

Bill feels like he can't breathe, like someone's standing on his chest and forcing the air right out of him. It's a challenge to find words through all of this, but he manages to force one out once he meets her stare.

"W-W-What?"

This time, she's laying differently than she had been and it's worse, in a way. His story is open on the bed while she lounges on her stomach, head propped on one hand, and his shirt is twisted around her, so it hugs the shape of her body closely. The fabric barely covers the slope of her butt, it cuts off at the edge of her thighs and he wants nothing more than to take it off so soft, bare skin is all that remains. But he doesn't let the sight take him into his thoughts, he grounds himself to the moment instead, knowing he'd let himself take in the sight of her for hours if he didn't.

Suddenly, she shuts the makeshift book of papers and moves to sit up, to shift onto the edge of the bed closer to where he is. Every move she makes takes his breath away with the new situation at hand and he keeps his eyes on her's the entire time.

"I asked if you want to have sex..." Y/N says, having lost all of the confidence she summoned the first time, then rushes to clarify the obvious, "with me."

Instantly, she's already cringing inwardly at herself and thinking, _of course he knew that I was referring to him having sex with me, who the fuck else would I be offering for?_ It takes all of her self control to keep that feeling from reaching her face and if she were alone, she'd have face-palmed at her own awkwardness. It's the type of thing you'd want to say seductively and smoothly, but that certainly wasn't the case.

There's a million different emotions flickering in those eyes that she can't decipher and it's the one that he settles on that she can understand.

Bill thinks she's fucking with him.

He chuckles softly, like it's all a great big joke, and says as he turns to work on his essay again, "You r-r-r-really had me fuh-for a second, nice p-p-prank, but n-n-not as convincing as Richie's."

Trying not to think about how it stung to have something he told her in confidence be used against him as joke material, his attention reluctantly returns to the small pile of paper in front of him as soon as his back is facing her.

If he were being honest, he would've told her she was being mean, but it's not like it'll keep him up at night. It goes against everything he knows about her, since she's never played cruel pranks on him or teased him about his insecurities before, but he's willing to rationalize the conclusion he came to in any way he can. Because there's no possibility she wasn't kidding and he's accepted that the only way he'll ever be with her is in daydreams and fantasies and doesn't see that changing soon.

But then the room goes quiet for a couple of seconds, then a couple more...and he still can't breathe when she speaks again.

"I wasn't joking."

Her eyes are trained on where he's still sat in his desk chair, anxiously beginning to tap the edge of his pencil against the tabletop, and could swear that he actually flinches a little when he hears her footsteps on the creaking floorboards behind him.

She was partly offended when he thought she was pranking him. Even if she knows him well enough to know that it came from a place of disbelief and wasn't because he thought she'd do something so insensitive, it took a second to get over the initial blow of that insult before her thoughts cleared. After years of imagining them together in such intimate ways, it's outrageous to her that wanting to have sex with him could be a joke. It's quite the contrary, actually, considering the fact that it's all she's thought of all afternoon and that scenario has been the backdrop to many of her fondest dreams.

He's still tapping the pencil against the desk when she leans up against the piece of furniture, right beside where he's sat with his eyes trained on his paper, waiting for his answer. Seeing her in his peripheral makes the tapping speed up.

"Y-You're b-being s-s-s-serious?" His stutter has gotten increasingly worse as this conversation continues.

"I'm being completely serious, I wouldn't joke about that," Y/N says, "but it's obviously up to you. If you don't want to, we can totally just go back to what we were doing and it won't have to be awkward, it's only that I..."

The relentless sound of the pencil hitting the desktop stops immediately and he finally looks up at her after avoiding eye contact for what felt like forever. He lets her see how nervous she's making him.

"Y-You what?"

It's a feeling so distinct, you can't manage to articulate it or dare try, but it's conveyed through physicality and expression instead. It's always been there. In the little moments; pauses of silence while talking where their eyes would meet but no words could make their way out, on nights he'd throw pebbles at her bedroom window to get her to drive aimlessly around town with him, and even when they were spending time with the rest of the losers and have a brief second to themselves.

Bill knows that she loves him the same way all of the losers love each other, but he never knew she _wanted_ him. The way you dream of being well again when sick, the way you become homesick after spending time elsewhere-she _wants_ him, wants him. The same way he has for all these years and she isn't sure if he ever noticed.

While her offer is casual, the desire driving it is anything but.

 _Maybe he'd be able to put it into words for me_ , her mind echoes, _he's always been such a great writer_. But that would involve telling him the full extent of her feelings for him and that would get messy, wouldn't it? She doesn't want to dump her feelings on him and confess anyway, not if there's a chance it would ruin this. All she could think of while laying on his bed was the idea of making him feel good, of giving him his first sexual experience at the hands of someone he genuinely trusts, not telling him that she's loved him this entire time.

That's why she settles on saying what she wanted to, but modified so it won't be the dramatic outpouring from years of pining after him that she wants to avoid. Enough that he'll know she's had this on her mind before today, but not enough to be emotional or come on too strong.

His eyes flicker over her when her's look at the floor for a moment, indulging in the yearning gaze he no longer tries to hide, then looks back at him to respond.

"I've kind of-" a frustrated sigh and the gentle thump of her hand coming down to rest on the edge of the desk fills the space between them, "I've wanted this for a while, you know? You and me. Then, when you were talking about how you've never had sex earlier it made me start thinking about it again and you _know_ I have no filter when I'm high-"

Bill's lips are soft. That's all she can think of despite the fact that their initial collision was clumsy at first-due to him being too eager when he stood and cut off her nervous rambling to kiss her. They both stumble before she's settled between him and the desk, hands having shot out to hold onto him for support. But as soon as they get their bearings, it's as sweet as she expected a kiss with him to be. It's tender and gentle.

His inexperience doesn't take away from it. In fact, it's kind of endearing. He's holding onto her as if he's afraid she'll somehow disappear if he doesn't wrap her up so tightly in his arms and it makes her smile when she pulls away.

They stand there for a second, nose to nose, and he feels dizzy as they breathe each other's air. It's hard to believe he actually kissed her. One moment he'd been watching her talk and the next he was standing, crossing that distance between them for the first time and damning the consequences.

It turns out they _had_ been one wrong word away from hooking up, because as soon as she said she's wanted this, he let that recklessness he fought off for so long override everything. All he could think about was living out those daydreams, the ones he swore up and down would never come to fruition.

"I want to...but you aren't j-j-j-just-just offering c-cause you pity me or s-s-something, right?"

The way he caresses her cheek is soothing enough to lull her to sleep, but she doesn't let it, doesn't want to miss a second of what she's been dreaming of for years. Maybe it's the effect the drug is having on her, but every place they touch is ten times as sensitive and she can't help but wonder if _other_ sensations will be more intense as well.

She says incredulously, "No! That's not why, I promise."

Then, she swallows back the lump in her throat, summons the courage she needs, and leans forward to kiss him.

This sensuality of it makes his face feel hot and he instantly opened his mouth to her when she prodded at his lower lip with her tongue, asking for permission. No one's kissed him like this before and he hopes she can't tell how embarrassed he is that this is all it takes for him to get hard. He couldn't help it, it was an instantaneous reaction to the excitement of the situation and, more importantly, her. Their bodies are squeezed together without an inch of space left between them and he sighs helplessly into her mouth at the feeling of her breasts pressing up against his chest.

But she had noticed his embarrassment and, while she finds it cute that he's this bashful, is having none of it. Knowing he needs to be distracted from his nerves, her hand slips down the length of his chest until it's trapped between them and she's palming him through his jeans. His hips jerk forward into her hand, body melting against hers. Her lips are drifting from his as this happens and she sucks at that stretch of skin along his neck, below his ear, until she finds a sweet spot he hadn't known existed and leaves a mark behind.

His head tips back absentmindedly to allow her better access and he shivers when she murmurs to him, "I just wanna make you feel good," the hand between his legs slows to a near-halt, "Is this okay?"

Moonlight shining through the window illuminates him for her as she pulls her face from the crook of his neck to look at him. Their lips are brushing so closely and all he wants is to lean through that last breath of space and get a taste, but she doesn't let him. He grinds into her hand in desperation for relief, cause he's so hard he might begin to ache if she doesn't keep touching him-he can't help himself.

"Y-Yes," Bill's voice is breathless and he chases her lips again, "Don't s-s-s-stop, please-"

That "S" sound is cut short when she tugs him closer by his waist. Despite the passion he can clearly sense between them, it surprises him how gentle she's being. Her free hand's grip on his waist is possessive, but she kisses him as if she's afraid he'll fall apart, as if she thinks he's never kissed a girl before even though they themselves kissed a few years ago during Truth or Dare. No kiss he's had has been like this, but he _has_ kissed girls before.

It wasn't anything like this, since they were only fifteen and neither of them had their first kisses yet, but it was enough to send them spiraling deeper into their feelings for one another. At that point, his crush had just surfaced and he spent the time they hung out together trying to get a grasp on what was developing. It wasn't like he hadn't noticed her before, but the summer between ninth and tenth grade changed things and she changed too. Suddenly, he didn't see her as one of the boys anymore and it was annoying him because he wasn't the only one noticing.

When they were walking home from the Quarry in their bathing suits, other boys were looking at her in a way he recognized because that's the way _he_ looked at her, not some guy who sat behind her in class who hadn't bothered to give her a second glance the year before. It was a constant struggle between knowing he didn't have a claim on her, that other boys were obviously allowed to want her, and getting irrationally jealous every time someone of the opposite sex merely breathed in her direction.

Despite that inner conflict he did well to hide, he still treated her the way he had before and only slipped up a couple of times. One of which was when they and the losers were playing a game of Truth or Dare and he got a little excited, for lack of a better word, when he was kissing her for a dare. Richie still teases him about it to this day and that's one of the reasons he got embarrassed when he got hard a minute ago, unable to rid his mind of the memory of having to sit beside her with his jacket in his lap afterward.

There had been this shy look on her face that day when she saw what kissing her had done to him, but none of that can be found today. Feeling him hard beneath the palm of her hand makes that arousal that had been stirring in her come to life and she can't believe she still has this effect on him. Not even thirty minutes ago, she'd fantasizing about him and couldn't focus on reading the story he gave her. Now they're kissing and she's touching him and he wants to-

Her thoughts are cut off by Bill hefting her up into his arms and turning to carry her to his bed.

Much like how he'd noticed the changes in her, she hadn't been blind to when his voice dropped and he started filling out. He grew tall first and remained quite gangly up until that point, but now he's able to lift her with such casual grace, as if it were nothing, and her stomach goes rampant with butterflies.

His trembling hands dig into her thighs the entire time and it makes her wonder if she'll be able to calm his nerves through the rest of this. One would think that the weed would've been enough to calm him, which it had somewhat, but he can't snuff them out entirely. And, in a way, he's doesn't want to. These are the nerves you _should_ have when having sex for the first time, especially if it's with someone you care for. It would be one thing if they were bad type that accompany dread, but it's not that, it stems from excitement. He wouldn't trade this feeling for anything.

She sucks a sharp breath in when he sets her down on the sheets. The first half of their afternoon might as well have been in a different universe, cause right now they're both overwhelmed with too many varying emotions to decipher. All either of them know is that they want this badly. For ages, they've both dreamt of this and the surreality of getting to indulge in their fantasies isn't lost on them.

His cheek is warm when she cups it in her hand, letting her other drift to card through his hair, and her voice is quieter than a lazy summer breeze when she next speaks.

"Are you nervous?"

Bill answers honestly, "A l-l-little bit," then looks her over from where he's settled between her legs, "I w-wanna make you f-f-f-feel good too, but I'm nuh-not sure how to..."

Sure, he knows how to have sex and the general mechanics of it all, but there's a vast difference between knowing and experiencing that he's about to discover. The farthest he's gone is kissing and painfully mild over the clothes touching with a girl he went to the movies with on a date. She let him touch her breasts, a concept that was equally as scandalous as sex itself in the landscape of his fifteen year old brain, yet he found himself recalling the kiss he and Y/N shared for the rest of the date after their kiss and the awkward boob-petting.

He's nearly as inexperienced as a person can get, so, naturally, he worries he won't be able to get her off.

Her hands slide from his face down the front of his torso, getting a feel for him and exploring the body that'll soon be as much a part of her as her own. Every breath and reaction he gives makes her want to keep going and up the ante until he's making noises that'll put these soft sighs and gasps to shame.

For that had been another thing she wondered; what do his moans sound like? Is he vocal in these situations or is he as quiet as he favors being outside of the bedroom? Or is he like the last guy she'd been with, who was unnervingly silent save for a few awkward grunts here or there? It's quite the mystery to her in this hazy state of mind.

Finally, after getting easily distracted by feeling him up and debating what his moans will sound like, she meets those pretty eyes of his and thinks she might melt. Her hands are still stationary where they stopped at edge of his jeans.

"I felt that way my first time too, but you have nothing to be nervous about. It's kinda instinctual, actually, and it'll start to make more sense when you lean into those instincts instead of away. It's easier when you're with the right person, though, it's not like you can force genuine attraction or trust."

There's this look on his face when she says that that makes her want to break eye contact, but she holds it anyway and makes herself sit with that vulnerability. Now he's the one reaching up to cradle her face in his hand. It's an effort to not let her eyes flutter shut in reaction to him stroking her cheekbone with his thumb.

Without missing a beat, Bill says, "I t-t-t-think I'm w-with the right p-p-person then."

That makes her heart stop for a moment and those butterflies she felt when he picked her up are more like wasps.

That was why she wanted to look away, she saw it in his eyes before he spoke and wasn't sure she could endure whatever he was about to do. It made her uneasy to think about all the possibilities of what could happen and how they could mess it up by bringing emotions into it. Why risk ruining what they have and losing him forever? And little does she know, that's exactly what he's thinking as well.

 _One night with her would be enough_ , he thinks to himself, _as long as we have tonight..._

The way he sees it, this isn't going to happen again. Y/N doesn't want him the way he wants her, doesn't love him the way he wishes she did, and he can't change that, so he might as well cherish tonight. They're both thinking that the other doesn't want more from this, but they couldn't be more wrong. If they could only swallow their pride and say something for God's sake, maybe things wouldn't be so messy.

Y/N kisses him instead of doing what she initially wanted to. It seems that he's not nearly as embarrassed by his arousal as he was before. A whine falls from his lips in tandem with his hips pushing forward into hers, as if he wants her to know how hard he is for her this time and feel that wetness pool in her underwear in reaction to it. Her hands are still stopped at the waistband of his pants, but the rest of their movements grow more passionate by the second. Especially Bill's.

"T-T-Teach me," He says in between kisses, "Shuh-Show me h-how-how to make you f-f-f-fuh-" a deep, frustrated exhale deflates his chest, "f-f-feel-feel good."

That's all it takes for her to nod frantically, more than happy to oblige, and guide him onto his back.

The last time they had any romantic or sexual interaction, neither of them had an ounce of experience. He could tell from her uncertainty that they were experiencing something new together, that she trusted him. And while the inexperience is no longer an aspect they share, the trust for one another in such an intimate situation still is.

He hadn't been lying when he said she's the only person he'd want this with. Not even those dirty magazines he has hidden in his closet get him as riled up as the thought of her does. But now it isn't just thoughts, it's real life. Little details he hadn't known to imagine like the warmth of her body on his and those little sounds she keeps making that are so hot he might lose his mind-those are what set the reality of the situation aside from the scenes he's played out in his mind.

They're desperate with every touch and open-mouthed kiss they share. He nearly came in his jeans when she straddled his lap and he felt that delightful pressure of her and him coming together through their clothes, the friction nearly too much to handle. It's not a night he wants to rush, but every urge tells him to get closer, to undress and touch and take what she gives him.

Every beat of his heart sends blood pumping straight down and he doesn't think he's been so turned on in his life, it's gotten to the point where it's almost painful without relief and he thinks the weed is making him more sensitive than when he's when sober. He feels every minute brush and caress of her body on his like the shock of electricity to his nerves and it's unlike anything he's felt before. Thankfully, her sitting in his lap and absentmindedly rocking against him is more than enough for the time being.

She breaks off their kiss and sits up to undo the buttons of the shirt she borrowed from him.

Deftly popping each one open, her eyes never once leave his and she feels his hands tighten on her waist the further down she gets. That strip of bare skin expands as she unbuttons it to the last one, giving way more and more until she lets the warm fabric slide over her breasts so she's completely exposed for him. The sight of her is enough to make his mouth water in spite of the cotton mouth that had him practically chugging from his water glass earlier.

Bill sits up and moves to touch her, but hesitates at the last second, eyes flicking up to look at her when he speaks.

"C-Can I?"

Her voice is shaking, "Yes-"

No time was wasted on his part, his eagerness got the better of him and he was closing the distance between them before she could finish that one-syllable word, but she doesn't mind. In fact, his enthusiasm is hotter than he realizes. Confidence is attractive, except people try too hard to be confident when they aren't, to play it cool, and it comes off as them not being into it. She loves that he doesn't need to pretend like he knows it all to protect his ego, she loves that he trusts her enough to be authentic.

All Y/N can feel, breathe, or think as he cups her breasts in his hands and starts to kiss her chest is how much she adores her lover in all of his wide-eyed excitedness. Every caress and lick is unsure, but that's to be expected and certainly doesn't mean it doesn't feel good. Like she said, some things are instinctual, but the rest? She'll take the lead and help him when he needs it, just like he asked her to.

Hand settling atop his, she guides him down her abdomen, away from where he's sucking a love bite into the sensitive skin at the edge of her nipple and caressing her in a way that makes her breath go shallow, painstakingly slow.

The anticipation is always what makes her heart race and now that he's the one touching her...there's no comparison. While her previous partners were good, he doesn't even have to try. They simply click when they're together, which is a connection she hadn't had with people in the past. Even when he's not touching her, she's ready to rip his clothes off and it's simultaneously as frustrating as it is satisfying because she knows this taste she's getting of him will get her hooked for good.

Their hands dip underneath the waistband of her panties and the rise and fall of his chest quickens the lower she leads him. There's this lingering sense of disbelief he feels the entire time, but he doesn't let himself get distracted by it. He tries to stay in the moment with her instead. The deep hues of the hickeys on her breasts stand out against her skin, a temporary sign that, at least for tonight, she's his. It only now occurs to him that she did the same to him.

It's overwhelming-for them both-when he first touches her. He's still paying attention to her chest, but it's clear that his focus is now elsewhere. He could come untouched from her shuddering against him alone, especially paired with the realization of how wet he got her with the first tentative brush of his fingertips against her.

Bill finally starts to ease the insatiable desire that's been building since midday.

 _To think that I turned her on this much_ -his fingers are slick with her arousal as he finds her clit with the pad of his thumb and tries to replicate the pace and motions she's helping him make. Part of what makes her so susceptible to what he does is his curiosity and what that changes. Rather than go straight for it, he savors the moment, savors her, and she couldn't be more appreciative. He's exploring another person's body for the first time, so there's no rush. It draws this out and builds tension because he wants to touch every accessible inch of her and won't settle for less.

His other hand grips her waist and his nails dig into her skin in reaction to her hips jerking forward to him; longing for more. She wastes no time with it, leading him through his own movements until he's sliding his middle and forefinger into her. She's holding onto him with a desperation that gives him a slight lift in confidence. Cause until a minute ago, he was overcome with worry about whether or not she would enjoy herself and now she's trembling atop him.

His imagination hadn't been able to capture the experience that is seeing, feeling, and hearing a person overwhelmed with sexual pleasure at your hands, this is beyond what he could've conjured up in any of his fantasies.

The hand that's clasped around his wrist holds tightly and, though he's too distracted with her breasts, he knows the look on her face would make him never want to look away again if he let his eyes drift up. He's starting to get the hang of what to do, but it's still takes a tremendous amount of effort for him to keep up what she showed him. It's not like she notices or even acknowledges his slip ups however. No, she's too caught up in how good he's making her feel and the surprise that comes with it.

He thrusts them into her slowly, so tenderly, and even then it isn't a thrust, it's more of a stroke; the feeling of someone whispering into your ear and the subsequent chills it sends skittering down your spine personified. It's almost unfair, she finds herself thinking, of course he's naturally good at this, of course the one person she can't have makes her feel the way no one else is capable of.

Between it all, she can't concentrate-he mouths at her breasts, his thumb continues rubbing her clit, and the fingers he has buried inside of her paired with the added sensitivity is going to be her undoing, one way or another. Exactly as it has for him, those couple of hits she took when she was reading have made her a live wire walking. It makes what he does that much more intense and she doesn't realize she's biting her lip hard enough to draw blood the more that electricity inside of her builds.

Thoughts race in his mind, most of which consisting of expletives and the same, repetitive, _I can't believe this is happening_ , and he can't rein them in. The feeling of her wrapped around his fingers has his mind wandering ahead of where they are, has him shifting uncomfortably in his jeans as he thinks about how it'll feel to actually be inside of her.

Bill pulls away from where he was soothing the love bites he left behind with sweet little licks and open-mouthed kisses to ask, lips brushing her nipple as she rocks forward onto his hand, "Does t-t-thuh-this f-feel good?"

There's not a chance for him to be embarrassed by how much worse his stutter has gotten because of her reaction. She hadn't realized she'd been holding anything back in the first place, but it was as if that question he asked, genuinely curious, gave her the permission to let it go. Unable to form words, a soft moan escaped when she heard him ask that. It's needless to say, he hadn't been expecting that response and it made his focus on what he's doing much lower falter for a second, head snapping up to look at her.

The only time he's heard someone actually moan from pleasure before her was when it was him and he was alone, so he hadn't found it hot, but hearing it from her makes it downright pornographic. And he was right about one thing, the second he moved to look up at her, he knew he wouldn't be able to tear his eyes away from such a sight. She's already so beautiful to him, seeing her in this state certainly doesn't change that.

It's almost comical how drastically the tables have turned between them, because even without her advantage in having more experience than him, he's rendered her useless. Rather than him melting in her arms when he'd pressed her against the desk, she's the one wrapping her arms around him and whispering a needy, "Don't stop," into the ever-shrinking distance between them.

His eyes hardly blink while he watches her with rapt attention and keeps going upon her request, in awe of the situation. Never had he expected this to happen, for her to want him so badly and reciprocate the desire he's felt since the night they kissed.

Midday, they were skipping class and watching movies in his living room, now she's straddling his lap and they're having sex-this very moment has been in his dreams for as long as he can remember. There's been this underlying tension building between them for years and it's only now come to the surface, only now to be acted upon after ages of wanting this...how had she not noticed? The same question could be asked of him, but in his eyes, it's been painfully obvious.

"I've w-w-w-wanted this f-for s-so-so l-l-long," He tells her, deciding to take a chance on honesty, "You s-said you wanted this f-f-f-for a while, I c-can't even t-t-tell you how m-m-m-many times I've t-thought ab-b-bout it."

What he said makes her squeeze his wrist so hard, he wouldn't be surprised if bruises are left behind, and it occurs to him that she _likes_ hearing his voice. Likes it in the sense that hearing him speak while he pleasures her gets her going, which is a concept he's awed by.

No one genuinely likes hearing him talk, ever, at least not in his mind. Sure, he's charismatic enough to make you listen, but it's not like he doesn't know that his stutter can drive even his closest friends crazy sometimes. He doesn't blame them for it because they don't take their impatience out on him or interrupt him, though they make playful jokes here or there that he laughs at along with. Still, he's always preferred to keep quiet and considering that his stutter is much worse during a time like this, he figured he wouldn't be that vocal when the time came. Yet to know that not only does she not mind him talking to her right now, but finds it arousing, stutter and all...He could kiss her for it, he's so elated.

(Though he wants to do a lot more than kiss her for it, perhaps more than he has the capability or know-how to do as someone having his first sexual experience. It's certainly more than they could do in one night, unless they spend the rest of it locked in his room for hours, which he isn't opposed to. What's happening is too distracting for him to linger on it, but there's no denying his dread in acknowledging that this may be the one and only night he'll have with her. He can't help but come back to it).

Her hand has yet to release him of that crushing grasp, but he doesn't mind. No, he'd exist right here with her forever if he could, listening to the noises she's making and feeling her with every deft thrust of his fingers inside of her. The pace has naturally increased and she meets him each time without fail. It's an absentminded action on her part, especially in comparison to his attempts to replicate the exactness of what she helped him start off with.

Everything Y/N does is in the heat of the moment, an act of passion and desperation, while he walks the line of what's instinctual and what she likes. He's focused and she's starting to unravel, he's disappearing into the moment and she's drowning in it.

It's impossible to ignore the tell-tale signs of her climax, she feels that heat intensifying and every brush of his thumb against that sensitive bundle of nerves makes it worse. His presence alone speeds the process along far faster than it ever goes when she's alone or the couple of times she's been with other people. It's because it's _him_ doing this to her. It's the emotional connection behind the physical one that renders her vulnerable. Not only is he achingly beautiful when she looks down at him, but that quality reflects inward just as much as it does out. He's always been kind and loving to her and she admires just about everything about him, perhaps too much.

And after all that time spent quietly loving him, here he is...and he's looking at her like she's the beautiful one, blue eyes swimming with a feeling he hadn't let her unearth until today. First, when they were talking about being with the right person and now-

Now he's giving her that same look and it's all it takes for her to come undone.

Free falling blindly into immense pleasure, Y/N clings to him. His face is buried where her neck bridges with her shoulder and he feels her body tense through every second of the sensation one can only describe as utterly euphoric.

Overwhelming would fit too considering the fact that she doesn't have the capacity to think about anything that isn't him or this fleeting happiness. She's so consumed by it that she's tugging him to her as if they aren't already as close as physically possible and whines a word he's pretty sure is his name.

It sounds sweeter than honey falling from those lips, it echoes through the farthest corners of his mind and back again. "Bill," she said and his hips jerked upwards toward her as an instantaneous, and involuntary, reaction. Her body is falling into his, rolling into every gentle pump of his fingers that helps her ride it out, and he's not sure he can take it anymore.

"S'okay," Bill coos between the kisses he places along her neck one after the next, "I've g-g-got you..."

His voice seems faraway from how lost she is in her physical senses, but hearing it soothes that urgent need to know he's still with her all the same. It sets her at ease and keeps her with him through the come down, as does the warmth of his skin beneath her touch. It takes longer than usual for her to catch her breath, her chest is dipping and rising to brush against his every other second, and all she can do is hold him close while she attempts to rein in the thunderous beat of her heart.

It's just starting to feel real for them.

Before, it felt like how it always does, like they were playing chicken and one of them was going to pull away at any moment to forfeit, but now...neither of them are sure how to process this situation. They were in a trance at first and he was stumbling after her with stars in his eyes, as always, but as soon as she said his name, he snapped out it and realized it wasn't another one of his dreams. It isn't a fantasy, it's real and she's actually here and that's enough to get him nervous.

The hand that had been holding his wrist has let go, but stays near. He can feel her fingertips sliding up until she's exploring under where his shirt sleeve cuts off at his forearm, knowing that as soon as she does that, she's reminded herself that he's still fully clothed.

Y/N's eyes are heavy when she pulls his face from her neck and looks him over. The hands that cradle his face are so soft, he doesn't hesitate to turn and press a kiss to the center of her palm. His tenderness for her is difficult to ignore.

"You're-" She has to stop to breathe and runs a hand over the fabric of his shirt, "You're still dressed."

His smile makes her want to kiss him.

He says softly, sheepishly, face going red and warm, "I can c-ch-change that if you w-w-wuh-want."

The only times she sees him undressed-and even then never _completely_ undressed-is when they go swimming in the summer months or on the rare occasion that they need to change in front of each other. The closest she ever came to seeing him naked until tonight was when she got to his house a little earlier than planned and Zack let her wait for him upstairs since they had plans to go out with their friends.

She was laying on his bed, reading a book plucked from the bedside table, when he came in from his shower wearing nothing but a towel wrapped low around his hips, nearly tripping over himself upon noticing her there. It only took one glance for her to yelp in surprise and hide her face in the book to give him what little privacy she could, but that glance was all that was needed to have her daydreaming about him all afternoon. When she watched him walk ahead of her while talking to Stan or whenever she rode double on Silver and had to wrap her arms around him, her mind kept going back to that memory.

What he said wasn't just some charming thing to move things along either, there's a question that hides there. _I can change that if you want_ -which she took as, _'Do you want to keep going?'_ Every time there's a pause, he's looking for approval and a sign that she still wants this. It's sweet, if she's to be honest, but it also has her fighting the urge to frown too because it comes from a place of insecurity too. They've both made it more than apparent that they're into what's happening, enthusiastically so, so him asking that made her heart melt because there's no scenario in which she wouldn't want him.

His hands are still supporting her by her waist underneath the unbuttoned shirt and that skin-to-skin contact makes her yearn for more, to take all of his clothes and feel the warmth his hands are giving on her waist tenfold.

"Please do," She whispers as she kisses him once, chancing a roll of her hips down on his that makes him gasp into her mouth, and reaches to undo his belt.

Those lovely eyes are unblinking watching her unclasp his belt and the room is so quiet, he realizes, that even breathing seems too loud of an interruption. Unlike his, her hands are steady through the motions of sliding his belt out from the loops of his jeans, not once losing that sureness he envies. He knows her better than he does anyone and because he knows her, he knows she's nervous, that this isn't a situation she was expecting or prepared for, but it doesn't appear that way. She keeps her cool.

Meanwhile, his emotion manifests itself physically and she's always found it easy to read him, to an extent. He wishes he peek inside her mind right now and know what she's thinking, cause she's trying her hardest to hide it and he hasn't an idea why.

And, as always, it's easy to tell he's lost in his thoughts. He's watching her still, yet his mind is elsewhere the whole time and it makes her frown, wondering if she did something to make him distant when only a moment ago they were as close as they could get. Neither of them enjoy feeling like something's coming between them and she'd be upfront about it, say something, ask him, yet it isn't that easy. Tonight is different and they can sense that, so she doesn't risk bringing anything to the surface, knowing she knows that once she does, there's no going back. At least if tonight changes things, they can blame it on this and stay friends, but if she says what she's wants, it can't be unsaid.

She's worried about their relationship being past the point of no return, but she's too caught up in it all to realize that it already is and that's where he's ahead of her. He can see there's no going back, a couple of words won't change the fact that this already changes everything whether they want it to or not. Friends don't fuck each other, that much he knows, and that paired with him not being able to piece together what's on her mind is enough to have him distant.

"You okay?" She asks to stop him as he's reaching to take off his shirt.

They're sharing their every breath and he'd be lying if he said it weren't intoxicating. It's the little things that make him so crazy for her. The way she smiles at him like he's the only person existing, that light that floods her eyes when she's talking about something she loves, how she's always moving from one moment to the next as if she has someplace to be-he could go on until the end of time.

To him, she makes this idle existence worth trudging through, has been a beacon of positivity through the horrific shitstorm that is adolescence, and now, as they're becoming adults, she's still right beside him. He's not worried about that things have changed because he knows they'll always love each other, one way or another. Whether it be as friends or lovers, he doesn't know, but their connection isn't one that can be severed completely.

His hand drifts up the curve of her waist, ghosting over her skin with featherlight pressure, and he's thinking over whether or not to speak his mind. It's not unlike her to freak out at the concept of change, so he doesn't want to startle her with his confession. If anything, he wants to put her at ease, not the opposite.

"Yeah, ofc-c-course," Bill says, then pauses, "A-Are you?"

Her response comes as soon as the last syllable leaves his mouth.

"Of course..."

It's palpable in the air between them that there's words left unsaid, hanging there, begging to be let out at long last, but neither of them would dare. Her because saying it out loud terrifies her and him because it seems so obvious, he doesn't see the need for it to be said.

They're caught in a stare-down waiting for the other to break, to say what's on their mind, and when that doesn't happen on either end, they're still looking. She finds herself starting to sweat, but it's clearly not from the temperature. Every eyeful he gets will be her undoing, since he's looking at her like he's never wanted someone or something as badly and if he doesn't stop that-

Y/N makes the first move to shut herself up before the words come out. Pretty sure he damn near sighed in relief when she took control of the situation and kissed him, her hands are beginning to wander and they tug impatiently at the hem of his shirt. Their mouths separate briefly so he can pull his shirt off and over his head while she looks him up and down. Unknowingly, that same longing she noticed when he was looking at her is present when he follows the path of her eyes on him and smiles slightly, as if he can't help it, but tries to keep it at bay nevertheless.

The warmth of his skin beneath her palms is surprising, though she doesn't know why she expected him to be cold, when she reaches forward timidly to touch him and he has nothing to do but watch. Gliding down over his abdomen all the way until her fingertips tease at the edge of his pants again, her touch grows increasingly confident. What they did must have broken the ice between them, because she doesn't feel as awkward as she had earlier while contemplating the task of taking off his clothes.

Maybe her emotions haven't caught up with her newfound physical confidence, but there's a clear difference in their dynamic now and she doesn't hesitate to pop open the button of his jeans. His hands are alongside her's to help and she moves, standing for a second, to pull them off. They're starting to become antsy and it's clear to see as they undress.

Giggling laughter invades their space as they struggle and he ends up kicking them off his ankles in the end. They're both already reaching hastily for his underwear as soon as his jeans fall into a pile on the floor to shove those down his legs just as quickly as they had the rest of his clothes. Their urgency is getting the better of them, but it slows significantly as soon as he's fully undressed and pulling her to him.

She's mostly naked, with his shirt unbuttoned and hanging open on her shoulders, but he still feels much more vulnerable with her still wearing underwear. So, he looks up at her for permission before reaching for them.

The pads of his fingertips rub tenderly at the stretches of skin above her panties, hands braced on either hip, and he finds himself distracted by how soft she feels beneath his touch, soft and curvaceous in the way women are. It's something he hadn't experienced until now, he realizes. The excitement of exploring another person's body for the first time and knowing they have wholly given themselves to you. He hadn't known what he was missing, had he?

The cotton fabric gives way under his guidance, hands pulling her panties down until they sit at her ankles and she steps closer to him, kicking them behind her with ease. With only an inch or so left between them, his hands glide up the length of her thighs as his lips brush beneath her navel and he feels her shudder against him in response.

The amount of times he's dreamt of this very moment...it took a while for him to accept that this is real and not another one of his dreams, but now that he has, he savors every second of it. He savors how her hand moves to cradle his head as he continues kissing his way up her torso, the sweet noises that escape her here or there, and the way she leans into every touch and kiss he gives as if she cannot help herself.

The effect she has on him is almost stronger than the drug in his system.

His eyes are still following the path his mouth made up to her neck when he feels her grasp his hands from where they'd been perched on her waist. They're standing face to face now, their noses brushing, and he finds himself calmer than he's been the entire night. Every place they connect incites that familiar spark of electricity thrumming within him, urging him to move closer and do something-anything.

All of his thoughts lead back to her and he doesn't mind. It used to frustrate him, thinking about her all the time and dealing with the prospect of unrequited love, but it doesn't anymore. He hadn't realized the relief he'd feel to, finally, have her in his arms.

His gaze falls to where she holds his hands between them, then back to her face as she pulls him forward-exactly how she imagined in that now-distant daydream. It seemed foolish to picture such a situation a mere thirty minutes ago, yet here they are and that situation has become reality.

The bed groans beneath their shifting weight while they get situated. It's, admittedly, clumsy and eager, but neither of them would have it differently. Neither of them would trade his fumbling movements, goofy grins, and tentative, but sensual kisses for the confidence of experienced lovers. This brand of flushed-face embarrassment and inexperience is a rite of passage for discovering oneself sexually and he hadn't figured otherwise. Knowing the universality of his feelings sets his mind at ease, even during the awkward moments.

Bill lets her guide him however she sees fit, wholly surrendering himself to her, and moans into her mouth in the process of settling between her legs. The hands that had been holding his reach to cup his face and draw him nearer, lips parting to deepen the kiss, and she supposes she could spend eternity with him if he so pleases. And she hopes so recklessly that he does.

The pace of her breathing has doubled by the time she pulls away to slip the shirt she borrowed from him off of her shoulders. It's almost amusing to notice how easily he can reduce her to a panting, desperate mess, inexperience be damned. But her thoughts are consumed by more pressing matters, matters she'd like to attend to before she bursts out of her skin from going too long (a couple seconds) without being touched by him. Her fingers hardly graze the material of the shirt before he stops her.

"L-L-Leave it," He says, then pauses so she sees the sincerity in his eyes and know it was a suggestion, not a command, "p-please."

Only now does it occur to her that he likes seeing her in his clothes, especially with the current context of the situation. A smile blooms on her face and the sultry little slant of her mouth gives him plenty of filthy thoughts. His cheeks burn red from that, but she mistakes it for embarrassment from his suggestion.

She asks, curious, "It turns you on?"

His eyes flicker over her with an expression that tells her he's just as impatient as she is. She knows she must be revealing the same lustful yearning when she looks at him; it's not as if she's trying to hide it.

"Yes."

The space between them shrinks by the second. Their urgency appears in subtle ways, such as one of his hands drifting down to stroke her waist absentmindedly or her inching her way back to their previous position ever so slightly. Judging by the fact that she's leaning in to kiss him again and doesn't make further movements to take the shirt off, he takes it as a yes to his suggestion.

 _His lips are far softer than I pictured them_ , she thinks. With only this in mind, they kiss and lose themselves in the never-ending moment.

One of his nervous ticks is biting or picking at his lower lip and it always tauntingly brought her attention to his mouth, as if daring her to fantasize about all the ways she'd like to put it to use. This often leaves him with scarred, swollen lips, but that's not the case tonight. Through the fog of their heady desire, she makes a mental note to ask him how he broke the habit once this is over, but the thought is swept away by the sensation of his thumb brushing over her nipple. The hand that had been stroking her waist traveled north and she can't find it in herself to stop him, despite the impatience that urges for more, for all of him.

Every movement becomes increasingly antsy and she tries to slow it down for his sake rather than rush. Still, as her hand glides down the smooth, somewhat muscular plane of his abdomen to help him find her, she wants to savor the experience. They'll both regret it if they don't. Luckily, she had her first with someone who genuinely cared about her satisfaction, who didn't pressure or rush her. He deserves that too.

That's why she pauses for the last time and tries to find words through it all, her other hand caressing his cheek.

"Are you sure?"

There's no hesitation in his whispered response, "Of c-c-course," He says.

Then, they're kissing.

And this time it's different, gentler. That's not to say the passion has disappeared, but the moment she took to ask him if he was sure he wanted to keep going was sobering and it helped bring them back to earth.

It's reminiscent of the first time they kissed, years ago, when they were dared to by Ben. He doesn't hold her as tightly as he'd been mere seconds ago and she feels his chest deflate with a sigh, as if he'd been holding it in all this time without realizing it.

Partly, she wonders if Ben picked up on their feelings and deliberately dared them to kiss. At the time she assumed it was for the sake of having an interesting game, since, after all, what's the point in a boring game of Truth or Dare? But now that she's looking back on it, it's possible that there could've been another reason for their dare.

His hand intertwines with her free one, just the way it had when they kissed for the first time around the sweltering heat of the campfire, and she cannot stifle the sound that escapes her when he makes the first push into her.

The sharp pain of her fingernails digging into his hand hurts, but he's surprised to find that he likes how it feels when pain and pleasure blend. It's only slight, though, and the pleasure heavily outruns it by miles. In fact, he's not sure he could describe the bliss that currently courses through him. He knew it was supposed to feel good, but this is far beyond that. It doesn't simply feel good, it feels right, like being here with her is the only place he's meant for.

The heat of his sharp exhale clouds her skin as he glances down at where they connect, hips easing forward ever so slightly in reaction before he stops himself. She had been right about things being instinctive and natural, cause it takes everything he has to ignore the overwhelming urge to move while waiting for her. And it's just as intense for her. There had been a sense of relief that flooded her as soon as he entered her and she instantly wrapped an arm around his waist. It wasn't as if he was going anywhere, she knew that, but wanted him as close as possible nevertheless.

It's only when she gives him permission that he allows himself to move.

A sigh falls from him as he draws back, then sinks into her again. It's an effort to keep himself from going over the edge with any movement made. The sensation of having her wrapped around him so tightly is unlike anything he's felt before and the velvet-soft warmth of her coaxes him back each time.

It's a slow, lazy pace for now, but he's not sure he could handle it otherwise. He's sure that going any faster or harder would end this prematurely and that's what he's afraid of. Of not giving her as much pleasure as she's giving him or this not being an enjoyable experience for her. She wouldn't mind, she'd tell him it's fine and not to apologize, but he minds. Despite how normal it is, especially considering that he's never done this before, it'd embarrass him.

Sensing his uncertainty, Y/N lets the hand that was resting at his waist slide down until it's grasping his hip and guides the returning thrust deeper in encouragement.

He ducks his head to pay attention to her breasts, lips grazing the soft, sensitive skin tentatively at first contact, sending shivers down her spine. But he soon abandons such formality, not having the time or capacity to second guess himself, and takes her nipple into his mouth.

His saliva glistens against her breasts under the lamplight and he finds that it compliments the marks he left behind on them earlier quite well. Her back arches into him in response to the two separate sensations melding into one. Between the feeling of him inside of her and his tongue caressing her breast, her mind can't choose what to focus on. Neither can his, apparently, since he can't stop himself from pulling away to get another glimpse of her.

The hand at his hip grips him nearly as hard as it had when he first entered her and his face is flushed at the sight of-well-everything. The sight of her beneath him is enough to fuel his fantasies for weeks to come, but it's how she looks at him that makes it worse. Neither of them dares to break eye contact and it's almost too intense to stomach, especially as the pace she leads him to is gradually quickening, deepening, and that makes it worse. (And by worse, he means better. God help him, it's so, _so_ much better).

She whispers the only word that'll form in the heat of such intensity: his name. It sounds pleading, whining-almost, and her legs hook around his hips to pull him closer. There's a familiar feeling that can't be ignored, the first inkling of what awaits stirs with every thrust while he, with her guidance, hits every perfect spot inside of her. It's happening much faster this time and she supposes it's due to excitement more than anything, excitement that revolves around finally expressing her repressed feelings.

Anything he does can set her off. The unwavering eye contact is what fuels the fire the most, but the sounds he makes are a close second. At this point, he has her in the palms of his hands and she doesn't bother pretending otherwise.

Her head tips back into the pillow, baring her neck to him as their movements grow rougher and the bed groans beneath them in response. His eyes scan her up and down through the chaos and he's biting his lip hard enough to draw blood. His attention unconsciously fixes itself on her chest. The skin marked in angry shades of purple and red, her breasts bounce softly every time he buries himself into her. It's so distracting that he finds himself nearing dangerously close to his end and can't stave it off.

It all happened too fast, but there's not much control he has over himself and she doesn't want to stop, so he, inevitably, only lasts so long before he comes.

She can feel his every muscle tense when it hits him, body stilling as he moans into her neck and presses into her hard enough that she gasps at how deeply she feels him. It's nothing close to the euphoria of what he's experiencing, but feeling him throbbing inside of her is what she imagines heaven captured in physical form is. He's even more beautiful like this, she thinks to herself, biting back a moan.

All is quiet for a few peaceful seconds, save for the sounds of their panting and the faint, nearly inaudible sound of the television they forgot to turn off downstairs.

In this span of seconds, he's void of thought. His mind is blank, focused on her and what she's made him feel. He's never had such a desperate need for someone in his entire life and it's overwhelming to experience for the first time. If anything, all that this situation did is worsen his infatuation with her. How is he going to act as if everything is normal? How is he going to look at her without remembering? As he started to come down from it, those questions began to arise.

But he doesn't have the chance to address them since, after all, this isn't over and he's sure he messed everything up by coming so quickly. Bill looks down at her, breathless, and opens his mouth to speak.

"I'm s-s-suh-sorry, I fucked it up, d-didn't I?" His voice is soft, but frantic to apologize, "I w-w-wanted you t-to come too, but I-"

Before he can blink, he tastes her lips on his. As soon as he became visibly nervous, there was nothing she thought to do to calm him down except kiss him. It worked when he did it to her earlier, so she figured it would be the same for him. The hands at her hips squeeze hard in response to the kiss and he resists the urge to tug her closer through the fog in his mind. Everything about her allures him at this point, from the sweet scent of her shampoo to the curves beneath his palms that he'll likely dream of getting his hands on again once this ends. All she had to do was kiss him and he melted in her arms.

It's difficult to tear herself away from him to speak, but somehow, even though she'd rather kiss him until her mouth goes numb, she manages to. His hands haven't eased their grip.

She reassures him, "Don't apologize, it's normal, honestly. I don't think any guy lasts very long their first time, don't be sorry."

The pad of her thumb strokes his cheekbone, lulling him back into the calm state he was in before nerves took over. Those nerves haven't disappeared completely, yet he nods into the hand cradling his face anyway. If she's telling him there's no reason to apologize, then he believes her and will leave it at that. But that doesn't mean he can't make it up to her, right? As long as she wants to, there's no reason to stop.

In between kisses, he says, "I c-c-can-can go ag-gain, if you want?" and when she nods, humming her approval into his lips, he murmurs, "Just give me a s-s-second."

Due to their age, it doesn't take long for him to get hard again after he comes. His refractory is practically nonexistent, which is something he's thankful for considering the current situation, and he's sure he'll only need another moment of kissing the beautiful, naked girl beneath him before he's ready. Earlier, it hadn't taken much to get him going either, which is why he knows it won't be any different this time. Last time, she merely suggested having sex and it made him start to shift uncomfortably at his desk while he pretended to pay attention to his essay. It made him feel a tad pathetic, in all honesty.

Rather than resist, he gives into the simple urges that cross his mind this time. He touches her without restraint and delights in every reaction, whether it be verbal or physical. Her body is responsive to him, so unashamedly responsive, and when she chances a roll of her hips up against his, he returns the favor.

Grasping at one another in a dazed sense of passion, they start to settle back into their previous rhythm. Before he came, it was just beginning to get good and neither of them wanted it to end-especially her. With her help, he was doing surprisingly well. It got better by the second and it wouldn't have taken much to bring her to the brink of her climax, she was already so sensitive from her first.

It takes even less time than he figured it would to recover, possibly because of her presence and how arousing her enthusiasm to continue is. Scratch that, it's definitely because of her presence and enthusiasm. When he's alone, all there is is fantasy and she's too vivacious to be displayed accurately within the confines of imagination.

Y/N moans when he grinds his hips forward and she feels him harden against her. It makes her want to lay her palms flat on his chest to push him onto his back, to take control of the situation-perhaps ride him till they're too exhausted to move. Her lips curl into a grin against her will at that, it sounds awfully appealing, doesn't it? It'd ease his nerves too to have her doing most of the heavy lifting seeing as she's the experienced one and he isn't. _He seems to enjoy it when I take the lead anyway_...her thoughts trail off into a dead end.

That's all it takes for her to make up her mind, nudging him to roll over on his back so she can crawl atop him. Her legs settle on either side of him and their mouths meet once more, clumsily, before she pulls back off of her hands and knees.

His eyes are still glassy, red from smoking, but they're flooded with lust all the same while they track her movements. It'd be impossible to tear them away from her, so he doesn't bother trying. In fact, he makes sure to never let her out of his sight through the entire ordeal. He spent far too many years forcing his eyes to find something else to look at, too many years distracting himself from the living artwork that is her face, her body-her everything.

Part of her wishes she could know what he's thinking, even now. He looks at her in a way that tells her everything it needs to, meets her gaze with an intensity that makes them both feel vulnerable, but that doesn't compare to knowing. If she were able to know, though, what she'd see would make tears slip down her face. Hearing thoughts all centered around how much he adores her would make this more meaningful than it already is.

A pair of hands larger than her own move to steady her hips as she reaches between them, not missing the way his abdomen flexes when she wraps a hand around his length.

She sinks down onto him so easily and he might leave bruises behind with how hard he holds onto her. They take it slow, gentle, and he doesn't rush her. And though it isn't as much of an adjustment this time around, she still needs a second to catch her breath. The position they're in is much deeper and she feels impossibly full-both physically and emotionally. The weight of this moment has yet to make its complete impact, but she's already suffocating in her emotions, it's difficult to imagine that there's more soon to come.

It's so quiet, too quiet, but neither of them can change that while waiting for her. He doesn't want to ruin the moment by saying something, but the silence would be just as unbearable, the silence makes him want to damn the consequences and confess it all, which he knows isn't smart. He's afraid to scare her off and telling her that he has feelings for her while he's literally inside of her doesn't seem like the best way to avoid it. In fact, he's sure that'd kill her mood and make her want to leave. (If only he knew).

Settling for something more appropriate rather than recklessly spewing the first words that came to mind, Bill whispers, as if unaware the word is coming out, "Beautiful."

There had been a full sentence connected to it floating around in his mind, but only one word managed to escape while he looked her up and down with no small amount of longing lingering in his eyes.

Her heart was already racing and here he was attempting to push it to its limits, how has it not burst yet? If he keeps saying the things he has been and looking at her like that, all of her control will slip out of reach. Similarly to how he felt seconds ago, she feels as though she's one more heated glance or heartfelt compliment away from risking it all. After spending years biting her tongue, she doesn't want it happening when she's too lost and dizzied by the way he's looking at her to realize she's even saying it.

What she doesn't realize is that she's just as bad, if not worse, when it comes to that. He can't decipher any of the emotions that flicker over her face, but their presence alone is enough to get his blood pumping. The fact that this is special to her, even though they both know this is an encounter that isn't to change the manner of their relationship, makes him want to speak. He's never wanted to say it more than now. In fact, he thinks he might die if he doesn't.

Then, his mind echoes back to him, _That may be the most melodramatic thought I've ever had, but I'll be damned if it isn't fucking true. I-_

She's too distracting for that thought to continue when she responds, letting things get into dangerous territory, "So are you."

There's no chance to get swept up in it, because then she starts to rock back and forth against him in slow, languid strokes and he's lost all ability to concentrate. All he sees, feels, and hears is her and he has no complaints with that. There's something inherently arousing in having a woman on top of you, of her being the one in control. Unconsciously, he's memorizing and appreciating every part of her since he knows he'll never get the chance to again. The way her skin feels beneath his palms, every curve and beauty mark, how her hair falls-he takes note of it all and locks it away in his mind.

Her hands brace themselves on his chest for support as the pace gradually increases and he watches her thigh muscles work to keep up with it. The feeling that was building earlier, right before he came, returns sooner than she anticipated. What makes it so intense for her is a combination of all the things that accompany the physical pleasure, all of which leading back to him. It's not necessarily about what they're doing, it's about _why_ they're doing what they're doing-or, at least, why _she's_ doing this.

Y/N doesn't pretend to know his feelings, but, knowing herself, she knows that she wouldn't do this with just anyone. If it were any one of their other friends, this wouldn't have happened and that terrifies her more than she could say. Even looking at him makes what they're doing feel better than it would if it were another person. He has such an effect on her and doesn't even realize it.

The room is beginning to feel too warm and she notices there's a thin sheen of sweat on him when she runs her hand down the length of his chest.

He's moving with her now, hips rolling up against her's and meeting halfway each time, and she can't help but go a little breathless. It's clear to see how desperate they are with how they're touching each other. The hands that had been perched at her hips have moved on, sliding up, down-anywhere he can touch her. One of them settles at the small of her back to aid in every thrust she makes and the other digs into the soft flesh of her thigh while he basks in how good this feels.

She's so wet, so hot, it's an effort to keep himself under control. It's easier this time around-the first time had been utterly hopeless and there was nothing he could do to stop himself from coming-but it still takes a conscious effort to procrastinate it. In fact, the haze he's in from the pleasure is so overwhelming, he didn't even realize she just said something to him.

For a moment, he'd been entranced by watching himself disappear into her and found it to be an unbearably hot sight. Her legs were trembling, his release still dripping down the inside of her thigh, and he slid into her like it was nothing, she took him so perfectly-Bill's eyes snap up to find her's and he blinks away the haze. He got caught up in it again.

Through it all, her mind is still distantly weighing how this will change things after it's over, but she tries to ignore it. Even if it's inescapable, she sure as hell tries.

Tonight has been a vicious cycle of not caring and caring, of being carefree, then worrying. How is she going to look him in the eyes once this is over without thinking about this very moment? This situation will undoubtedly change the dynamic of their relationship forever and that poisonous thought lingers with her, but then he's looking at her and it dissolves into thin air. The further she's drawn under this state of intoxication with him, the further he takes her from those worries.

This time, he's listening when she says, motioning for him to sit up, "C'mere."

The closer they are, the steadier she is. Being able to embrace and kiss him soothes her anxieties more than she'd care to admit and she wants to be as in the moment as she can be. Against her better judgment, she wants to be reckless, not thinking about the consequences of the future or what this will do to her emotionally. Tonight is dangerous, she decides, and it's all her fault.

Bill doesn't hesitate to do what she asked, he sits up and grabs her by her thighs to tug her onto his lap. It's jarring for a second, seeing him treat her with a little more confidence and possessiveness. He's still caring and considerate of her, still unsure of what he's doing, but no longer touching her like he's afraid to. At first, every time he touched her, it was as if he was expecting her to change her mind and tell him to stop at any moment. He was touching her like she was the virgin and he was terrified of startling or hurting her.

Now that isn't the case, now he touches her like he means it and she couldn't find it more arousing if she tried. It's easier this way too, since he helps ease the strain in her muscles by holding her up, supporting her so she can simply let go and exist with him rather than concentrate on whether or not her legs want to give out. That, mixed with being too caught up with him to think about anything but what's currently happening, makes everything ten times as pleasurable.

Their noses brush with every rise and fall of her hips and their bodies are flush; her breasts press insistently against his chest and her arms are wrapped around him. She lets out a soft gasp as his hands disappear into her hair and their bodies collide in the satisfying rhythm she sets for him to follow. And he does so without hesitation, letting himself get as lost in it as she does. If he were able to focus on his thoughts, he might find it amusing how little their dynamic changes in their friendship versus sex.

Something he recently realized is that Y/N is to him what he used to be to the rest of the losers. While they looked up to him and, unconsciously, seemed to gravitate toward him for reasons none of them could discern, he's always done the same to her. Trailing behind her at their social gatherings without realizing it, always sitting next to her when given the choice, fleeing his house to throw pebbles at her window when things got bad; a moth to a flame. He couldn't help it.

It'd already been intense for her, but at this point, between all of the emotions and physical sensations, it's feeling like too much. They kiss hungrily, not caring to stifle any noises that escape along the way since no one else is home, and she senses her impending orgasm as if it were a tsunami steadily building, readying to crash upon the shore. Everything he does sends her closer and makes it difficult to breathe or think through everything that's happening, all he does is pour gasoline over the fire that's burning within her and she never wants it to stop.

Neither of them can form words other than each other's names; either whispering some muffled variation of them or whining incoherently. It's all so frenetic and needy, she's surprised by how much things have escalated this time around. The first time had been simultaneously nerve-wracking and exciting and he was so shy, but they've managed to come out of their shells in the heat of the moment. The blush painting his face is no longer from shyness or embarrassment, it's from this.

It's easy to tell that they're both close, but she knows he's barely keeping it together, that she needs a little push to get there with him. His hands are still wrapped up in her hair and she reaches for one, guiding it down the length of her body as a way of telling him what she wants. He gets the message, the pads of his fingertips brush her clit and she moans into his mouth in response. At last, that endless wave is cresting and it's so close she can almost feel it, desperately chasing it.

She clings onto him when her climax crashes into her, mouth falling open in a gape as that growing heat shifts into a sizzling, explosive wildfire that cannot be contained. If her first climax had been good, this one is beyond describing. It's a type of pleasure that's so much, so fast, there's nothing for her to do but succumb to it, to ride it out in his arms and enjoy every blissful second of it. And he helps her through it, caressing that sensitive bundle of nerves at the apex of thighs and thrusting up into her all while she's still writhing against him-until he too succumbs to it and comes inside of her with a breathy moan.

The still quiet of the house returns to them as they come down from their highs, but it has yet to make them uncomfortable as it had the last time. The last time they took notice of it, they were looking into one another's eyes while she was waiting for the initial discomfort of him being inside of her to go away. It was chaos and desperation and yearning, but this is peace. Minutes stretch into hours in the afterglow and he savors it. He shuts his eyes, forehead pressed against hers, and savors every second.

Tonight felt so bittersweet to him. As it was happening, he wasn't exactly focused on what he was feeling other than nervousness and excitement, except looking back on it, he realized that this encounter was bittersweet to the core. Being able to be intimate with the person you love, but having it be temporary, never to happen again, is self-inflicted torture he feels like an idiot for willingly participating in, but how could he have turned her away? Never, he supposes, he could never turn her down.

God, he'd let her break his heart into a million pieces, wouldn't he?

Y/N lets out a deep, sighing exhale that wakes him from his thoughts. The palm of her hand rests flat against his chest and he feels her trace the depression of his collarbones with her forefinger. It's strangely hard for him to breathe while she does this. He's hyper-aware of where she touches him and it's as if he worries that doing something as small as breathing or moving will disrupt her, wake _her_ from her thoughts and remind her to get up.

They end up separating a moment later, though, and she hates the sense of emptiness that accompanies it. The sheets are soft where they meet her naked limbs (minus his unbuttoned shirt) as she stretches, groaning as her tired muscles find relief from the constant exercise. He had pulled out of her, gently, minding their shared sensitivity, and set her down on the bed while he wandered off down the hallway to find a towel to clean up with.

Her eyes scan the room while he's gone, absentmindedly searching for new details she hadn't picked up on last time. She's so familiar with this bedroom, she could navigate it through darkness, and yet there always seems to be something new or different to notice. It doesn't necessarily have to be anything huge, just small stuff that most people wouldn't pick up on; like the way he sets up his posters on the walls or a folded up piece of paper on his bedside table from when he woke up in the middle of the night to write about his dreams.

There's something inherently domestic about this moment, about lying here, clad in one of his shirts, waiting for him to return as if he were her lover. As if he were hers. She has half a mind to be afraid of it and resist it, but she isn't, she doesn't...and she doesn't know what to do with that. Having a years-long crush on him was one thing, but this entire night was another. And beneath the anxiety for what might come of this, whether it be good or bad, there's _trust_. These kinds of feelings always scare her, but the fact that she trusts it is strange.

How can one trust something as fleeting and unstable as romance?

Bill is back before she knows it, shutting the door behind him (just in case) with his foot and handing her a towel to wipe off with that she accepts with a soft, "Thank you." He's collecting their clothes from where they'd been carelessly tossed to the floor in the midst of the passion by the time she looks up at him. The only item of clothing he bothers putting back on is his underwear, the rest is set down at the edge of the bed so she can redress whenever she wants to. For now, she just pulls his shirt closed to cover herself. After all they did, feeling shy about nakedness seems silly, but she can't resist the urge to cover up.

The mattress dips as he lies down beside her and her head turns instinctively to find him there. His chest rises and falls swifter than it usually does, drinking down every breath-full of air gratefully. Her eyes track the movement of it for a few generous seconds before she realizes he's looking at her and directs her gaze back up to his face.

They get stuck at this moment for a while, unable to tear their eyes away from one another. It's as if they've forgotten they aren't together, because they don't hide any feelings that linger between them behind masks or deceptions and transparency has never felt as freeing before. Everything prior to this was stolen glances and subtle flirtations, but this-this moment-it's when everything is laid bare. And they aren't even conscious of it. Stuck in a trance, all they know is that they're looking at each other and there's no view better than that.

He catches himself wanting to reach out to cup her face, maybe trace the outline of her lips or tuck the strand of hair hanging out of place behind her ear. Or, if he were brave enough, tell her what he's been aching to since they first kissed during Truth or Dare. Would she say it back? Or would she run off, wishing she hadn't done this with him?

Then, she notices that familiar look in his eyes as he stares at her, the look that tells her he's about to say or do something she might not be able to handle, something that'll make hiding her feelings for him impossible.

Bill opens his mouth to speak-

The phone rings downstairs, jolting them from the trances they were in. Instantly, his expression sours and she sees his eyes widen, realizing they'd forgotten something while they were together. Their friends are waiting for them at the diner and Eddie, quickly followed on his heels by Mike, is using the payphone to call Bill and ask where the hell they are. She has to stop herself from reaching for him when he sits up to answer it and can see in his face when he stops to turn back to her that he doesn't want this to end.

"I fuh-forgot w-w-we-we had plans, they're p-p-p-probably waiting for us." He says and makes to leave, then halts again, as if he couldn't go without saying something, "Tonight w-was..."

Y/N smiles and he could swear he feels his heart skip.

"Go answer it, they're gonna be pissed if you make them waste a quarter," She pauses for a beat, "we can talk later."

And he does just that, rushing down the stairs with his clothes in hand to pick up the call. He's still tugging his jeans up his legs when he answers it and balances the phone between his shoulder and cheek while Eddie asks if they bailed on them. All he can think about the entire time is the girl upstairs, about what they did and when "later" may be.

They're out the door and in the car within moments, en route to the diner to hang out with the losers as if none of it ever happened.


	2. Enough

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Bill and Y/N go to the diner.

The sounds of the diner are lively compared to that of the overwhelming quiet that blanketed Bill's room during their afternoon together. He notices that between the patron's conversations, faint music, and the sounds of the kitchen in the back, there's plenty to fill any unwanted silence. But there's nothing that can drown out the thoughts and memories of what happened being screamed at deafening volume inside of his head over and over again.

The drive over was hectic, if he's to say so himself. At first, they were quiet and she was propping her feet up on the dashboard, careful not to scuff it, to buckle her sandals. He kept looking at her out of the corner of his eye-it was like a game, they would take turns looking at each other and the other would pretend they didn't notice. That was how it went for the majority of the ride, no discussion or acknowledging what happened, only silence and side-long glances. Until, of course, she noticed something as he parked the car in the lot in front of the diner.

The table is packed to the brim with their friends and even then, they had to drag two chairs out to set at the end of the table since the booth only fits six people. The late duo would have sat together there, but Ben wanted to sit next to Bill and Beverly hasn't seen Y/N all week, so they ended up switching around to accommodate those requests.

She sits the farthest into the booth, the wall on her left and Bev on her right, as she pours over the events of today. Besides the obvious, her mind is mainly focused on what happened in the parking lot, not before. Her eyes can't help but find that spot on his neck from where he sits across from her and she has to stop herself from giggling at the memory. It's a wonder that none of the losers have commented on it yet.

The car came to a stop in the farthest corner of the lot, far enough that their friends couldn't see them through the windows, when she looked over at him and noticed it.

"Oh shit!"

His head snapped over in her direction, a bemused expression on his face. The radio was still playing, as the car hadn't been shut off yet, and it made what would've been an awkward gap of quiet more bearable. She was surprised she hadn't noticed sooner, but when she glanced at him for the millionth time, the hickey on his neck caught her eye as if it hadn't been there the whole time. Reddish-purple against pale skin, it stuck out like a wine stain on white clothing.

His brows furrowed, "What's w-w-w-wrong?"

The mirror above him was flipped down in a matter of seconds and her hands guided his head to turn so he could see his neck. If their friends saw this...it's not as if anything bad would've happened, they wouldn't have judged, but they're so _fragile_. What happened was a lot to deal with emotionally and while their friendship retained an unbreakable strength, their romantic and sexual relationship did not. Having other people know what happened that soon wouldn't have been good.

His worry was plain as day. It wasn't even placed low enough to be hid by the collar of a shirt, why hadn't either of them thought of that in the moment? Her's are, thankfully, in a place she can cover them, but he's going to have to find new ways to hide this through the week. They sat there, staring at it in the mirror and trying to think their way out of it, when she remembered what she had in her bag.

The warm lighting of the diner helps make it less apparent, but in sunlight, it's painfully obvious. She had to scoot so close to him, he could scarcely breathe, and he felt himself burn where she touched him as she smeared layer after layer of makeup on him. Beverly left a tube of concealer in her purse last week and she'd never been as thankful for her friend's forgetfulness as she was then. It doesn't necessarily look good and if you look close enough, you'd see it, but it's good enough to see them through dinner. It doesn't hurt that he and Beverly are a similar shade of pale, white skin either.

Eddie and Richie are talking loudly about how Henry Bowers embarrassed himself in front of everyone during their lunch period. Apparently, it was the most cathartic experience and it's a shame she and Bill missed it. And though they nod along, pretending to be upset they didn't see it, neither of them care since what they experienced instead was better, at least to them. This afternoon was...

He still has trouble wrapping his head around it; he and Y/N. Because it's not like they're a thing, they're not actually "Bill and Y/N", they're just friends...friends who had sex an hour ago, but friends nonetheless. And he thought that it would feel strange in the aftermath, but it doesn't. It's unnervingly casual and he doesn't know what to make of that.

The sound of silverware tapping plates is all that grounds either of them to reality, especially him. He's snapped out of the daze this afternoon put them in faster than she has had the chance to and overthinks every minute movement she makes or word she utters. Nothing is left unnoticed, even if he's trying to make his glances subtle and fleeting, he's not successful in his efforts. He won't let his eyes off of her for more than a few moments and she sees, but doesn't say anything.

Dinner has been passing by without a hitch and he was nearly about to thank whatever higher power that was listening for that mercy...That is, until he looks over at her for the millionth time and she catches him staring instantly, pretending that this is the first time she noticed. She raises her eyebrows with a taunting little half-smile and he's never felt so exposed in his life. Even if the Losers wouldn't think anything of her smiling at him, to him, it feels so risky.

The sunset invades through the windows of the diner and casts him in an overwhelming array of oranges, yellows, and pinks that's only interrupted by the lamp hanging above their heads. It brings out the warm tones in his hair and makes his eyes seem that much brighter, a feat she hadn't known was possible since they're already beautiful enough on their own. That half-smile on her face only grows as she watches him, under the sunset, as he looks at her like she's somehow scandalized him by _smiling_.

 _Who would have thought? I thought he'd be the one making me melt, not the other way around._ A voice in the back of her mind then counters, _Although, he made me melt plenty today, more than he knows._

After taking a generous bite from her plate and a swig of water, Y/N wills her face into neutrality and leans back in her spot beside Beverly. He's still staring at her and she'll only be able to stomach it for so long before she bursts out of her skin. Having his attention fixed on her so intently, and so blatantly, is something she'll have to adjust to if he continues with it.

Despite the adjustment, though...it's not as if she doesn't know why he's looking at her like she's the dinner, it's not as if she doesn't know exactly what he's remembering every time she does so much as breathe in his direction. After all, she's remembering the same things as him and the only difference is that she has a better poker face than him. And it's flattering in many ways to know that she has that kind of power over him. He's always been somewhat of an unattainable daydream for the duration of her teenage years and now that they've officially begun their first days of adulthood, she's discovered that the sentiment was mutual all along.

The sounds of their friends' conversations fade out when she uncrosses her legs, hyper-aware of where her other friends are, and inches her foot across the floor bit by bit. Her face threatens to betray her with the urge to smile, yet it doesn't, she uses every ounce of control to keep herself relaxed as to not give herself away. And it works for the most part, her eyes dance back and forth between whoever is talking and him for a few seconds before settling back on Bill. Back to the person she never wants to turn away from again.

There were moments before the chaos of today, leading up to it all, that should've alerted her of where they were headed. There's one in particular that comes to mind each time, in fact. The afternoon leading up to it was frustrating and she was still anxious when she heard the gentle thwack of pebbles being thrown against her bedroom window. He hadn't needed to say anything and she hadn't needed to poke her head out to check who it was. They were on the road before she could blink and, at one point, he looked over at her and her heart couldn't help but skip a beat before returning back to normal. That was the first of many hints they should've picked up on.

But that's the last thing on her mind when she finally summons the courage, face blank, and nudges his foot with hers. At first, he moves his away, assuming he was taking up too much space and that was her way of letting him know. But, then, she follows him, stroking down the length of his calf with the tip of her shoe as if she were stroking a different part of him.

Keeping herself from bursting out in laughter at his reaction is the true challenge, she supposes. He suddenly became disinterested in the conversation at hand and began fidgeting with the water glass sat in front of him, twisting it anxiously until a ring of condensation blooms on the coaster beneath it. Their friends remain unaware the entire time, thank God, so he doesn't mask his emotions when he looks at her from over the glass now raised to his lips. It's as if she's _trying_ to make him think about what happened and, if that's the case, she's doing a great job.

Her lips curl into gentler, but just as mischievous, smile this time. The only warning she allows him is when she cuts a sidelong glance at the rest of the group before dropping a half-eaten fry back onto her plate and lifting her hand to her face to suck the tip of her finger clean.

 _Oh, fuck me,_ he thinks, _she's definitely trying._

A muscle in his jaw flexes and he follows the movement of her lips with rapt attention as she takes her finger into her mouth a little deeper, then pulls off of it noiselessly, winking at him. The tension between them is electric at this point, much like the moments leading up to her asking him if he wanted to have sex.

There's this sense of magnetism that calls them together and they can't fight it. Drawn to one another by a force stronger than themselves, Bill and Y/N can't help but fall for one another again and again.

The intensity in his eyes has yet to calm and they both know it won't until she does something about it. So, she gives him a knowing glance and tilts her head in the direction of the bathrooms as subtly as possible.

Bill's about to tap Ben on the shoulder to tell him he needs them all to move so he can go to the bathroom-hell, he'd even crawl out from under the table if he had to-but he doesn't have the chance.

"So," Stan takes a gap in the conversation as an opportunity to include the only Losers not participating, "Where'd you guys go, we all missed you at lunch and thought you forgot about our plans tonight?"

The entire table sets their eyes on them, ripping right through the separate world they'd descended into, and their hearts both halt in reaction. How are they supposed to string together any response when they were two seconds from rushing off to the bathroom together? And though he knows it wasn't on purpose, he's trying not to glare at his friend for unknowingly cockblocking him. Of all the times to ask, he had to do it before they had the chance to slip away for a quick couple of minutes...

Bill shifts in discomfort where he sits, painfully hard, and opens and closes his mouth like a fish with no clue what to say under the grating pressure of their kind gazes. Luckily for him, Y/N comes to his rescue and he doesn't have to bother lying. Whatever he would've said in his hazy state of mind wouldn't have been believable anyway, so, her answering was for the better.

"Well, I forgot to write the essay due today in World Literature, so we skipped most of the day and he was still helping me with it when you guys called. We got so wrapped up in it, we forgot we had plans..." She plays it off, then her attention turns back to him, "Right?"

The only essay involved in their day was his and it almost got soaked in water when she asked him if he wanted to fuck her so, no, not right, but it's not like they need to know. He wouldn't be able to look them in the eye if they did.

Nevertheless, he perks up at this and nods, even while she's rubbing his leg from under the table, "Yeah, s-sh-she-she forgot it and I guess I g-g-got so caught up in-um-" His mind flashes with vivid memories of them together, with the memory of what she looks like under those clothes, and he has to bite back the sound that threatens to escape his throat, "- _helping_ her, I j-j-juh-just-just lost track of time..."

Her other foot gently kicks out from under the seat as if to say, _Real smooth, Denbrough, real smooth._

But it didn't hit him, instead, Ben's face twists with confusion and he turns to her as if she just struck him-which she accidentally had. At this point, she wants to go home, dive beneath the covers of her bed, and never let herself see the light of day again. The embarrassment is utterly unbearable and if he announces it to the rest of the table she's not sure that they'll let her live it down anytime soon. This is exactly what she feared; the Losers figuring out what happened and this new, vulnerable aspect of their relationship being brought to light before they're ready for it.

Bill keeps the conversation going on her behalf while all of this happens, oblivious to the situation.

Preparing herself for the inevitable, she looks at him, pleading with her eyes, and prays he won't say anything. Much to her amazement, his face softens at that and he blinks away the confusion. From her point of view, it looks like everything just clicked for him. He lets his eyes dart back and forth between her and Bill, once, twice, three times, before he cocks a brow at her.

How the fuck is she supposed to respond to that? Especially with everyone else surrounding them at every direction?

He never gets a response to his brow raise, though, because she tunes into the conversation quickly enough to join in seamlessly. She'll have to make up for the dismissal later, maybe explain it to him after dinner or tomorrow if Bill is okay with that.

Dinner returns back to normal soon enough and everyone, including Ben, accepts their explanation despite how flustered Bill was while trying to tell them. It isn't odd for him to be flustered anyway, sometimes he can't get his words out and they always wait for him, so it wasn't out of the ordinary enough to worry them. Plus, it didn't hurt that she stopped rubbing his leg under the table so he could catch his breath-and go soft again, because, fuck, he wasn't sure how he was going to leave the booth without them noticing. That's not to say he didn't spend the entirety of the meal imagining what would happen if she dragged him into that bathroom and used that pretty mouth on him...It was all he could think of, truth be told.

In fact, it's still on his mind now.

The majority of their friends have left, only he, Y/N, and Mike remain since they offered to collect everyone's share and stay behind to pay the waitress. And since she stayed, he stayed.

He noticed that her handwriting was shaky while signing the check, which stopped and made him wonder if she was as nervous as him. If so, she did a masterful job of hiding it all night. As soon as their friends brought them into the conversation, she stopped teasing him, then focused back on eating and talking to their friends. He hadn't noticed her interaction with Ben, but that was all that kept her at bat. If their friend hadn't noticed what was going on, their little game could've continued for the duration of dinner.

The bar countertop is smooth under where his palm taps it in anticipation of what will happen once they're out of here.

Yesterday, this wasn't a situation he considered possible and, now, he's had her twice today and is still yearning for the chance to sneak off with her again. He asks himself, already knowing the answer, _Was this afternoon not enough? Will I ever stop wanting her?_ At least before today, the desire was manageable and he could keep his hands to himself since she'd never told him otherwise.

Before this, the worst of it was one of the hottest days of summer when collectively decided to swim to escape the heat and she was wearing a bathing suit. It's hard not to blush while he looks over at her and remembers how he touched himself later that night, her name on the tip of his tongue.

"I'm gonna head out," Mike brings him back to reality and his eyes snap up to find the source of his voice, face growing redder by the second, "I've got work tomorrow, I can't be out too late."

He smiles from where he leans against the counter beside Y/N and says, "Get home s-suh-safe."

Their friend responds with words he can't manage to focus on for the life of him-something along the lines of "Thank you" or "Always"-before he makes for the door and disappears into the star-flecked night. He's never glad to see his friends leave, never, but this is the closest he'll come to that feeling. An hour and a half has never felt so long in his life. That dinner was torturous and slow, especially after she teased him, but now...

Bill looks over at her.

He shifts in his place so he's leaned over where she's double checking the receipt to make sure everything is correct, and doesn't miss how her breath hitches when he does so. They're not touching, but they might as well be considering her reaction to him merely hovering close to her-too close to be casual, but too far to be satisfying. After all, after what they did, how could anything be enough again? They couldn't manage to sit through an hour and a half without flirting, it's needless to say that adjusting back to life as normal will not go on without issues. Every time they close their eyes, memories come to them in flashes and there's nothing they can do to stop them.

And there's a part of her that doesn't want to stop them and welcomes them so willingly, welcomes _him_ so willingly. It's the same part of her that isn't satisfied with their closeness, or lack thereof, and the part that urged her to tease him in front of all of their friends. She used to be able to work through those urges, to ignore them, and look at what he's done to her with one afternoon. It's hard to imagine what it'd be like to have him forever if today has already swept her right off her feet.

Y/N sets the pen down atop the receipt and stack of assorted cash, leaving it there for the waitress behind the bar to retrieve when she returns from her smoke break. Since she knows that no one is in here with them, customer or waiting staff, she doesn't bother with discretion. The only people in the building are in the kitchen or outside since tonight was slow and they're always understaffed.

Those pretty eyes flicker up to his and hit like a physical blow to the gut. She may not be discreet, but she feigns innocence like it's her job; looking up at him through her lashes and smiling so softly.

"I have to use the restroom," She says.

The hand that was tapping the counter stops as her shoulder brushes past his.

That's it for him, he decides, as if he hadn't already known, he's absolutely gone for her and has passed the point of pulling himself from the edge. He's never fallen for a person this hard. It's a special, blind free-fall that he takes without wondering if she'll be there to catch him on the other side. It's reckless, impulsive, and, quite frankly, stupid, but what else is he to do? Today was a rush of emotions, mostly because he's been in love with her for years, but also because it was the first time he's felt a person's touch in months and it was a lot to handle. Sex is the epitome of touching, of physical intimacy, and he's been deprived of human touch since the age of twelve. Due to this, feeling her near him will never get old, he's been craving this type of thing too long for that to be the case.

His eyes track her movements on her walk to the restroom, specifically following the subtle sway of her hips that throws him back in time two hours to a moment they shared in the aftermath of what happened. Hands perched on either hip, he cradled them from where she sat on his lap and memorized the curves vividly enough to recall even now.

With a quick once over of the diner to make sure no one's watching, Bill walks away from the bar without a second to spare.

The hallway leading to the door she's already passed through rushes by in a blur in his peripheral vision. While framed photographs and artworks line the walls too, he doesn't take the time to acknowledge them as he would have if she weren't waiting for him. Art is to be consumed with patience and thoughtfulness, but he's had enough patience for one lifetime in waiting through dinner to be with her. In the back of his mind, he wishes they actually forgot about their plans so the rest of the night would've been theirs.

It doesn't matter now, though, not as he opens the bathroom door and slips inside.

He doesn't have the time to lock it before she's kissing him. They stumble backwards and their combined force shuts the door behind him. His back is flat against it, the chill jumping at him through the material of his shirt, but he pays it no mind. They fumble around for a lingering moment, the sound of the exhaust fan overhead drowning out any sounds they make from the rest of the restaurant, and grasp one another with an urgency that can't be mistaken. Nobody's ever wanted him like this before, which is why it's hard to wrap his head around how confident she is in her desire for him-although if he were to ask any of the Losers, they'd tell him that plenty of people have had crushes on him while he was too busy following her with stars in his eyes to notice other admirers.

He leans into her, deepening the kiss.

The taste of her is sweet, most likely because she had a spoonful of Richie's dessert after being offered some, and he savors it. However, it makes him wonder how she tastes elsewhere, if he were to sit her on the edge of the sink and push her dress up her legs. One of his hands is drifting along her thigh to the hem of her dress and she lets him continue his path beneath it until he's reaches her ass, squeezing the soft flesh in his palm and using the position to grind her hips against his growing erection.

Y/N bites down on his lower lip, tugging gently as she pulls back from him, then soothes it with a kiss. The way she teased him during dinner gave him a perfect idea of what she has in mind for him and he fights against the whimper that threatens to escape him at the thought. Except that curious thought he had keeps invading his mind, it supersedes his excitement surrounding what she implied she'd do back at the booth they were sitting in.

He's about to reach down to hoist her into his arms, but she's a step ahead of him.

Excited, trembling fingers begin to unbuckle his belt and his mouth runs dry at the sight of her. She's too focused on getting him free from the confines of his jeans to notice that he's reaching to stop her from kneeling down. The warmth of his hands gently grabbing her wrists makes her want to melt into his touch, but she needs to ask what's wrong instead.

Bill says, cutting her off before she can open her mouth, "I j-just..." he blows out a soft exhale and guides her back up to him.

The silence between them is downright deafening and the fan is the only thing filling the gaps in their limited conversation. This encounter is more for expressing their feelings physically rather than verbally, so neither of them mind. It's the tension that she minds, though. When he leans in to kiss her, the tension is thick enough to slice with a butter knife and she's hanging onto his every word for an explanation. Perhaps she was too forward and he already had enough for today, perhaps she misread the situation and thought he was on board with something he wasn't.

Guilt pangs deep in her stomach at that.

But that couldn't be farther from the truth. In fact, he can't wait until a time he can take her up on her offer, but, for now, there's something he wants to do first and he won't be able to get it out of his head if he doesn't.

Their lips meet in a slow, hot kiss, his mouth opening to the prodding of her tongue immediately, and his hands return to where they'd been rubbing the backs of her thighs. Every step they take to where he guides her back toward the sink is unsure and stumbling and, halfway there, Bill lifts her into his arms to carry her the rest of the way. It sucks the air right out of her to have him take such initiative, even if it's a temporary reprieve from the comfort of their natural dynamic.

His hands disappear into her dress in the few strides it takes him to reach their destination and the skin hidden beneath it is hot to the touch, flushed in anticipation of what's to come. When he stopped her and picked her up, she was thrown off her rhythm and her dominance transformed into something gentler, more tender and excited in the wake of his confidence. He's not necessarily dominant, but rather taking control more than she figured he would, considering his inexperience.

The sink finally appears beneath her and she relaxes as he places her atop it with ease. Her heart can't help but flutter with every passing second she spends waiting for his next move and it's a strange, but welcome sensation. The nerves they were faced with this afternoon were different than what they experience now; they had been fueled by insecurity earlier, while they're fueled more-so by jittery excitement now. The hands digging into her thighs tug her to the edge so he can settle between himself them, hips rolling forward for relief in time when their mouths connect.

The butterflies in his stomach are merciless through the process of building up the courage to continue while his lips drift from hers to suck at her neck.

 _Payback_ , she thinks and would roll her eyes if she weren't drowning in the sensation, payback for making him endure hiding a hickey for the entirety of the upcoming week.

It doesn't matter to her at this point, nothing will ever matter so long as he's touching her like this. How could it, anyway? In moments of intense arousal and desire, the rest of your priorities dissolve and your focus solely lies on who you're with. It's such a foolish thing, to her, but it always happens. Your grasp on the outside world only returns once you're coming down from the high, but before it hits, there's mindlessness. It's as if your thoughts are no longer active, no longer controlling every minute detail of what surrounds you, and you can simply exist without worry, fear, or anything besides all-consuming pleasure. It's a trance.

He kisses his way right up to the stretch of skin underneath her ear that connects to the curve of her jaw before stopping. Sounds of their heavy panting floods the air around them.

"I stopped y-you-you cause I w-w-w-" Bill has to take a moment to breathe, face flushed where it's tucked into her neck, and delights in how she rubs up and down his arm in comfort, "I w-wanted to taste you."

That was the hottest thing he could've said, as well as the most unexpected.

No person she's been with has been this devoted to her pleasure and if there had been any doubt before this that he's the best she's had, it's gone. God, she wants to do so many things with him with so little time. This false casual-ness cannot be sustained, she's well aware of that, but what if when they talk about their situation, he doesn't want it to progress past this? Her heart can't take that kind of pain, but she keeps going anyway. Despite how stupid and reckless she is, despite knowing that he's gonna break her heart whether he means to or not, she continues.

All logical thought evaded her once he uttered those words. The only word she can form is "please" and she says it, grasping for him desperately and itching to get his hands on her, she pleads for it.

That's all the permission he needs before his hands are sliding up her legs in search of her underwear. He tries to take it as slow as possible, as slow as they're allowed to, but knows they have to be quick about it since there's only one restroom here and an employee could come back to it at any time. Maybe some other time they'll do this again and he can take as long as he'd like, make the build-up tantalizingly slow and spend ages with his face buried between her thighs. In his room, he was mesmerized by watching her as she came and a sense thrilling excitement runs through him upon realizing that he'll get to see it happen again.

His fingertips brush over the wet spot on her panties and trail up to the waistband with just enough pressure to make her crave more, then dip inside to pull them down her legs. The cotton fabric tickles on the way down, making her lips curl into a smile that he only sees once he pulls away from her to slip them off her ankles.

He smiles too, taking a brief second to look her over and settle that adoring gaze on her eyes. Nobody's ever made her confidence spike just by looking her in the eyes, but here he is and he's looking at her like she's the most beautiful person he's laid eyes on. Even years from now, she doesn't think she'll be able to capture the essence of what lingers in his eyes for her. It's too complex to be pinned down, so utterly human, and what she doesn't realize is that his eyes are those of a person in love. Only someone in love can look at you like they're two seconds away from pouncing on you in a fit of passion and still retain their tenderness.

The moment doesn't last long before he tucks her underwear into the back pocket of his jeans and sinks to his knees in front of her.

Seeing him like this never fails to render her weak in the knees. Of all the girls she knows have feelings for him, he chose her. She wants to wonder why, in fact, she would ask him why if that wouldn't acknowledge that they haven't had a serious conversation about this yet. But, ultimately, she's too distracted by the current situation to bother. The only thoughts that matter to her are thoughts of him, of how perfect he looks with his head between her thighs.

Bill's hands are big, she notes, as if she hadn't realized before, where they ruck her dress up around her hips and grasp her thighs to coax them apart. In retrospect, doing this in an unlocked public bathroom probably isn't smart, but he shows no signs of hesitation when she looks down at him. Soft lips mouth at her inner thigh and her chest rises and falls faster in reaction. Watching him do this is nearly as satisfying as feeling it; his eyes are clouded with lust, strands of red hair fall onto his forehead, and his hands cradle her like she's too delicate to be handled with more force, which is more endearing than he realizes.

There's no shame in wanting your partner to get rough with you, she'd be a liar if she said she hadn't wanted that before, but something about how he walks the line between benevolence and dominance without misstepping intrigues her. It's as though, while physically in control, he's just as submissive with her as he was back in his bedroom.

It's torturous to have him so close to where she wants him without any true relief. His path has led all the way between her legs-not without leaving another love bite behind on her thigh-and he worships her with that beautiful mouth his, avoiding where she needs him to go in an effort to fluster her. He _knows_ they don't have time for this, but her response to it is nothing short of breathtaking. Every so often, her hips jerk forward, her back arches in search of the pleasure she seeks, and one of her hands has reached forward to card through his hair and guide him closer. Seeing her this desperate is something he's incapable of forgetting, it's shocking to him that any person, let alone Y/N, is a few seconds short of begging him to touch her.

She doesn't beg, though, her voice is shaky and breathless, but all she says is, "You're being a tease."

That delicate grip on her parted thighs grows tighter at that and those pretty blue eyes flutter up to look at her. If they weren't pressed for time, he would've taken what she said as a challenge and teased her for as long as he could stand to. Because, regardless of the fact that it doesn't relieve his desire, he wants to hurry this along just as badly she does. It's embarrassing to him since it's his first time and he's resigned himself to the fact that he won't stop blushing, but he's never craved the taste and feeling of another person this badly before this-before her. He's had his share of make-out sessions with other girls, but merely kissing her gave him the instant urge to carry her over here and go to town-which hadn't happened before.

Without giving her a chance to catch her breath, Bill dips back down and doesn't tease her this time. Her head falls back against the mirror when he licks her, tongue delving into the sensitive area with little formality. Since he's not sure of what he's doing or if what he does feels good, he keeps an eye on every reaction she makes to give him an idea of what she likes and dislikes. He hopes she'll let him know if he needs to adjust or keep going, but tries to pick up on her cues anyway. From what he notices, her reaction isn't far off from what it had been the first time he touched her like this, so he takes that as a sign to continue.

The hand that was stroking his hair now tugs on it gently with every perfect caress of his mouth on her and he can't help the sound that escapes him. Hearing how easy it is to get him to moan for her only heightens the arousal that's been building since she teased him at dinner, which he can tell from the wetness that slicks his lips. Everything about him, about this interaction, sets her off. The risk of someone walking in is terrifying, but strangely thrilling. She's never had sex in a public place before and it's making her heart race faster than it would've otherwise. And, of course, there's him. He was already making her antsy to get her hands on him again before their little rendezvous in the bathroom became a possibility, it's needless to say that watching, and feeling, him do this to her intensified that.

He doesn't realize it either, that's what astounds her. Every glimpse she gets of him, whether it be his eyes flicking up to look at her or his tongue running over his kiss-swollen lips before focusing back on the task at hand, is going to be her undoing and he has no clue. For such a dirty action, he has a way of making it look beautiful-which is probably because she thinks he's beautiful in general, no matter the situation. Yet there he is, acting like he's the lucky one and looking at her like she's the beautiful one.

The muscles in her legs twitch involuntarily when her hips jerk forward instinctively into the pleasure. It's starting to feel good-really good, in the way that it does once things finally get going and it seems that no amount of stimulation will be enough-as he gains more confidence. His face is still flushed, but he's unashamed. In fact, he's getting a little lost in it. There's something about giving her pleasure that riles him up in a way nothing else can and he's in heaven right now, in all honesty. It's something he hadn't realized before, since he's never done this before, but the intimacy of what they're doing is addictive. Being this close to a woman, surrounded by her in every way, is addictive and he supposes it must be a universal feeling. Even the scent and taste of her attracts him, makes him want to spend forever here with her.

One of his hands drifts from her leg and runs down the inside of it with a feather-like lightness until he reaches the apex of her thighs. Ever the tease, Bill moves his open-mouthed kisses and licks up while his fingertips dip into her shallowly to collect some of that wetness and spread it over her core. He strokes, caresses, and teases her for as long as he can manage without obliging the wordless request made with each tug on his hair and soft moan that floods the bathroom.

"Bill," she whines, body arching against him while he pins her hips down, "please..."

 _Fuck,_ his mind curses and his train of thought halts.

It's hard to concentrate when he hears her moan his name, but he doesn't stop, it only intensifies his enthusiasm and makes him give in to what she wants. It's so easy for her to get to him, isn't it? All she has to do is whine his name, bat her eyelashes, and say please, then he's at her command.

He wouldn't have it any other way.

She's thankful that the fan is still drowning out her noises when he eases a finger inside of her.

The sound of her hand hitting the soap dispenser after it shot out to reach for support reverberates through the room and she's surprised he doesn't flinch. Neither of them care at this point whether they get caught or not, they're too distracted. Perhaps if they actually got caught, that sentiment would disappear, but she can't see herself caring about anything other than this-him. He's doing a wonderful job of making her forget about the rest of the world and the words they have yet to exchange about what they've done, the further he draws her from those worried thoughts, the more she gives herself to him.

Her hips roll forward into every thrust he makes and he doesn't need to be told to add another finger. She's already falling apart and struggling to stifle her whines, so he wastes no time.

He's already made her come twice today and now the third is building steadily in the pit of her abdomen like a spring readying to bounce and she's not sure she can handle it. His fingers pump into her with such ease and she has to bite her lip to silence herself. He keeps unintentionally brushing up against that sensitive spot inside of her each time and it feels so fucking good, she doesn't know what to do with herself. The sensation of him sucking and kissing at her clit was already overwhelming, but this takes her to a place she's never reached before.

Y/N whispers loud enough to hear over the fan, "Please, don't stop-"

She's cut off by her own gasp when his fingers curl inside of her in time with his tongue flicking against her clit. He squeezes the hip he has pinned in place as if in warning, to tell her to be quiet, but she's having trouble stifling her noises. He's insufferably, naturally good at this. He has her wrapped around his finger whether she likes it or not and, dear God, she _likes_ it. Everything about him, every movement, glance, and touch, drives her out of her mind and she wants nothing more than to have him forever. If the rest of her life were spent beside him, she'd have nothing to complain about again.

It's not just the sex, it isn't just the hormones and brain chemicals sent through her body in reaction to what he's doing, it's her heart. It's her heart and she knows that no matter what, wherever their souls go after this life, hers will always find his. One way or another, a piece of her heart will always belong to him and there's nothing either of them can do to change that—not that they'd want to.

Her head tips back and thumps quietly into the mirror, hair tangling with every roll of her hips against his face in search of her climax. It's so close, she can already sense it looming like the pleasurable alternative of anxiety. Anxiety builds and builds, sending you hurtling toward worry, but this is its blissful opposition. It's the good kind of inescapability that she wishes could last forever, the respective feelings simultaneously so similar and different.

All it'll take is another moment of this before it hits her and she clings to these seconds just before it happens with everything she has. Nearly better than an orgasm itself, this stretch of time right before it is indescribable. Any useless thoughts disintegrate and, in this fleeting moment, he's brought her to the edge of heaven. How could any other pleasure compare? How will any other man be enough for her after him?

She doesn't know, nor does she have the capacity to think about the questions her mind brings forth when her head tilts back down to look at him and their eyes meet. The hand laced up in his hair pulls the strands taut from his scalp involuntarily, a knee-jerk reaction, and the groan he makes pushes her over the edge.

Without warning, that perfect moment shifts into something ten times as powerful. All she can do is let her body jerk and writhe through the peak of her orgasm and savor every second. He doesn't relent with the steady rhythm of his fingers pumping into her and open-mouthed kisses that prolong every wave of pleasure that pulses through her. Everything he does intensifies what she feels until it slowly begins to fade away and she shuts her eyes in appreciation.

When he finally stops and pulls away, Y/N's chest drops with a happy sigh.

It takes a while for her to come down from it. It takes patience on his end while he presses kisses to the insides of her thighs and caresses up and down the curves of her hips. Eventually, her eyes flutter open and find him kneeling there in front of her, pressing one last kiss to her navel as a parting gift before directing his attention back to her face.

The rush of emotions that flood her in the wake of what happened are utterly overwhelming. Her crush on Bill has lasted years and there he is, looking at her like that, like he always does, only now it's different. Now, she finds herself acknowledging the feelings that have been repressed and ignored for the duration of her teen years and doesn't know how to handle them.

Instead of confronting the situation and speaking up, she pushes her feelings down even more. Tomorrow, she decides, she'll talk to him tomorrow, but for now....

The hand laced through his hair relaxes its grasp, sliding down to cup his cheek. And, though the door is still unlocked and they should be out of here by now, his eyes flutter shut and he leans into the touch gratefully. It's a beautiful sight, she thinks, seeing him vulnerable for her. He's fairly comfortable being emotional and open around their friends, but Y/N is different. She's always been a safe place, a person he could go to for anything and know that there would be no judgement on her end.

The only thing he could never open up to her about was her. It wasn't as if he didn't want to, there were many times he felt a desperate need to say or do something to let her know, but he never did.

Bill opens his eyes after a couple second pass, giving her a soft smile, then pulls the skirt of her dress back down from where he had it hiked around her hips.

The energy between them has shifted dramatically in the time it took her to come down from her high and she can't stop thinking about it, even as she hops off the sink on unsteady legs. The playfulness and excitement lingers, but the vulnerability from earlier, when they were about to talk about their feelings in his room, resurfaces. She hopes he doesn't notice, hopes that they can continue pretending and doing this without having the conversation she promised they would.

His hands are still damp from when he was washing them in the sink—while Y/N stood with her head leaned back against the wall and admired him in silence—when they guide hers away from retrieving her underwear from his back pocket.

With furrowing brows and an amused smile spreading on her face, she asks, "You're not giving them back?"

That pale face flushes pink in response to her teasing, but he keeps his cool as much as he can and shakes his head, stepping closer to her. And as embarrassing as it is, the idea of him keeping them makes her already-sensitive core pulse in interest.

A voice in the back of her mind scolds, _Jesus Christ, Y/N, he already made you come three times today, settle down._ But she can't help it, even with her sensitivity in the aftermath of what just happened. Even though they're probably just having sex constantly to distract themselves from the feelings they have yet to confront, she can't deny that it hasn't been just because of that. There's also a part of her that always wants him in that way, regardless of whether or not they're using sex as a fun distraction.

Her back is pressed against the cool tiled wall, yet she can't find it in herself to complain. He's leaning into her now and the warmth of his body remedies her discomfort. Any sign of the fleeting authority he took while pleasuring her is gone and replaced with his usual, tender self. Bill tends to be pretty sure of himself around her, but with the recent situation, you'd think she turned him into a blushing school girl.

Their eyes meet and his smile falters slightly, as if remembering what she asked him after getting lost in looking at her.

"Is t-t-that okay?" Bill asks, nose brushing the tip of hers as he presses a chaste kiss to her lips, "If I don't g-give them back?"

And he already knows the answer from the way she looks at him before her mouth can open to speak. It's always been easy to read her expressions. It took a couple years of knowing her, but, at a certain point in their friendship, all it took was a glance to know what she was feeling. The only thing she bothered to conceal were her feelings for him, feelings he has yet to realize exist because all they do is dance around what they've wanted to say all day.

The bright bathroom light illuminates those expressions perfectly and he watches her in admiration, just like she does when he isn't looking, while she nods her approval.

As a response, she tugs him toward the door by his hand and says, "Come on, let's get out of here. Don't want some freshman who works here walking in on us, do we?"

But even during the walk to the car and the time they spend talking and listening to the radio on the way home, the words left unsaid linger in the space between them.


	3. Time

"We can talk later."

Bill has never heard such an annoying phrase in his entire life. Talk later? When even is that anyway? A day? A week? A month? For all he knows, it could mean forever with how they've avoided their inevitable conversation like the plague. In fact, they've avoided each other like the plague since that night.

It wasn't deliberate. Neither of them woke up the next morning and decided to make the next three weeks as awkward as possible. But they couldn't help but avoid each other, how could they look each other in the eyes after what they did? Every time he glances at her from across the clubhouse or in the hallway, he remembers everything.

It happened again earlier today.

The Losers all met up at the clubhouse, just to kill time on a boring afternoon, and he thought he was in the clear when he realized she didn't show. At first, after that day, he was desperate to see her. The anticipation killed him and he knew they had to talk about it before it got out of hand, but it changed. After a week of silence, it became too awkward to go through with it and he avoided her at all costs.

That was why he felt his heart stop with dread when she arrived.

They were already hanging out for a half hour when she climbed down with a cheery tone that he knew was disingenuous. Y/N was acting uncharacteristically quiet and detached for three weeks. Three. But there she was, like an angel coming down from the clouds when she descended the ladder and hopped onto the floor, making everyone's head snap up to catch a glimpse at her. At the "normal", radiant Y/N making her reappearance. He didn't know what about today was so different, why was she feigning happiness all of the sudden? She went from sulking and sweatpants at school to, well, wearing a dress that almost made him choke on the soda he was sharing with Mike.

It didn't just accentuate every part of her that flooded his mind with three-week-old memories either, it was beautiful. It was her, the her from before their silent standoff, and he never knew someone could feel both dread and relief at the same time before then. Patterned with cherries, the fabric looked soft enough for him to want to run his hand along it, but he scolded himself before the thought got the chance to linger.

She greeted them with smiles and giggles whenever one of them made a joke, but her eyes met his once, which made the bright expressions disappear for an instant.

"So," Y/N asked, confused, "What was this I heard about a rejection? Who on earth would reject any of you?"

The room turned their attention to Bill, but not for the reason she assumed. Her eyes almost popped out of her head at the thought of someone rejecting him, especially recently. Girls, who used to call him "Stuttering Bill" and enable all of the bullying, have warmed up to him ever since Sophomore year. Y/N wasn't the only one that changed that summer, he did too. Seemingly overnight, he went from loser to the hot new guy on the baseball team. He wasn't popular, per-say, just popular with girls. It made her blood boil to see girls who used to laugh under their breath when he stuttered come to his games just to ogle him.

So, it would go without saying that Bill getting rejected was out of the possibility of reality.

"We were just talking about how Lydia asked Bill out after lunch yesterday," Eddie clarified. "He said no."

"Which he's an absolute dumbass for doing, by the way, she's possibly the hottest girl I've ever seen. Super smart too, probably more than all of us combined," Bev said.

The rest of them laughed at him passing up on such an opportunity, but Y/N's mind was on him. Even as she laughed for show, she was picking the information apart. A cloud of dust spread through the air when she plopped down on the chair beside Stan, not missing the smirk on his face at the topic. He knew about their pining since it began, knew exactly why he would turn down someone as intelligent and gorgeous as Lydia, and he couldn't believe the other didn't see it. There was a reason for the rejection.

Bill was sitting across from them, playing with Eddie's hair absentmindedly. They were taking turns with the hammock. Whenever it was Eddie's turn, he pulled a chair up beside him.

The giggling died down after a few seconds and Richie took that as his opportunity.

"Yeah, I couldn't wrap my head head around it if I tried. Half the cheerleading team wants you to rail them and you say no every single time," He shook his head and popped a stick of peppermint gum in his mouth, "Are you afraid of losing your-"

He groaned in annoyance, cutting him off, "I'm not af-f-fraid," a pause, then he mumbled, "It's not like I h-h-have anything to be afraid of luh-losing anymore anyw-way."

The mere implication of Bill's now-nonexistent virginity made their eyes meet, the intensity in their gazes almost too much to stomach. However, they weren't forced to continue their blazing eye contact for long, his mumbled comment launched the group into an interrogation. As soon as the words left his mouth, Bev's eyes lit up and Eddie shifted in the hammock to ask him what the hell he meant.

The comment slipped out on accident, but it made her uneasy regardless. A part of her wanted to talk to him about it. A part of her wanted to pull him aside one day and lay it all out there, but she knew that having that conversation would come with risks. Talking about her feelings would've risked him rejecting her, exactly like Lydia, and telling her that what they had was only sexual. The last thing she wanted was to hear was that.

They coaxed incredibly vague details out of him. Little, stupid things. Like where it happened, who initiated, and if it was good or bad. Those beautiful eyes that she spent three weeks dreaming of burned into hers whenever he responded.

Stan asked, "Was she cute?"

"Beautiful, actually." He refused to look away when he said the words that made her heart stop, "I can't s-s-s-stop thuh-thinking about her."

The sun is setting now and the colors dance across his room through the open windows, painting his collection of open books and blank paper in beautiful swathes of color. After they left the clubhouse, Ben asked if they could help each other with homework. It's always a fair trade, Bill helps him with English and he helps him with math. His parents aren't home, so he's glad he came over. If he hadn't, the house would feel as cold and lonely as it always does. Having friends come over helps a lot, even if he can tell that Ben has been dying to say something about the conversation in the clubhouse.

The sound of pencil on paper and faint music dulls the awkward silence hanging in the air. His textbooks and papers are scattered, disorganized, in front of where he lays on his bed. Ben is laying beside him, his pile of supplies is much neater.

Bill hasn't been able to get any work done, though. His gaze keeps drifting to the left toward his desk and, every single time, his mind brings forth the memories he tried so hard to ignore. He's laying exactly where she was that day, watching his desk exactly how she had. Except she was watching him, not an empty chair. The feeling of her watching him was too strong to miss, but he rationalized it any way he could. Friends stare at each other like that, right? Technically, she wasn't checking him out...right?

"So," Ben says casually, pretending not to know, "What's up with you and your mystery girl?"

His brows raise at the question, face flushed to match his red hair. He flips a page in his textbook rather aggressively.

"W-W-What's there to tuh-tell?"

Everything the Losers were told about his first time is all of the information he's willing to volunteer for now. She won't even let herself be alone with him for longer than a few seconds, let alone speak to him. As long as their relationship remains on unstable conditions, nobody needs to be hearing any intimate details. They can't expect their friends to understand something they can't understand themselves.

His friend shrugs, "You seemed pretty crazy for her back at the clubhouse...and at the diner."

It takes a moment for the words to resonate, but, when they do, his eyes widen with the realization. Of course, they weren't as inconspicuous as he thought they were. Why does that not surprise him? Between the hickey, the odd behavior, and whatever the fuck that was back at the clubhouse, why did he think no one noticed?

A muscle in his jaw clenches as he realizes that he can't lie his way out of this one. His pencil drops onto the half-filled notebook page with a gentle thump.

"What g-gave it away?"

Ben laughs — literally laughs — and cracks a sweet smile.

"Uh...everything?" He watches Bill pick the pencil back up to anxiously tap it on his notebook, "Probably at the diner, you guys weren't being that subtle. And then at the clubhouse too. I mean, you were staring right at her the whole time...What's going on with you two?"

There's a dip of silence between them, and he doesn't want to acknowledge the fact that he knows. He knows about him and Y/N, or at least suspects it, and he can no longer hide from it. The avoidance wasn't one-sided, they both woke up the next day and couldn't bring themselves to confront it, so he acknowledges his part in where things went wrong. But he can't help but feel an unjustified resentment for her, for their situation in general. If they were upfront about how they felt originally, he wouldn't have to feel this way. He had an overwhelming urge to tell her how he felt that entire night, but, stupidly, he ignored his instincts.

His pencil continues to tap while he sifts through the information in his mind, all of the repressed emotions and memories coming back to bite him in the ass.

"There's n-n-n-nothing to tell," Bill pauses, then amends, "It's not what you think it is."

"I didn't assume anything, I just thought you guys were acting weird. Did you guys kiss again or something?"

Did they kiss?

Bill's mind flashes with a collection of indecent memories, three weeks old, and struggles to stop himself from glancing over at the desk drawer her panties are hidden in. She never asked for them back after the diner, so they remain with him for the time being. When they first got here tonight, he almost tackled Ben to the floor to stop him from opening the drawer in his search for a sharp pencil, but, thankfully, there was one already out on the desk. His parents aren't even interested in him enough to snoop, so he figured it was safe there, but hadn't taken his friends into account.

The only reason he isn't drowning in anxiety is because Ben isn't pressuring him. Though he is asking personal questions, which is normal for them, he knows that there is no obligation to answer if he truly doesn't want to. Ben's features are soft and understanding, not accusatory or judgmental.

He stops writing in his notebook, glancing nervously at the door as if someone could overhear in the empty home, and says, "L-Lydia is a really n-n-nice girl, but..."

Ben smiles sympathetically, "But what?"

His lower lip is being bitten so hard, it wouldn't surprise either of them if it bleeds a little. Why is it so difficult to say what he feels? It's simple, he's known this for years, and, yet, the words refuse to come out. His love for her is the only constant in his life, it's one of the few feelings he's sure of, but saying it out loud to Ben before her feels borderline traitorous.

"Lydia is nice," Bill lets out a deep exhale through his nose, "but I'm in l-luh-love with Y/N. And we had sex a couple w-weeks ago, but now we a-aren't even t-t-talking to each other and I don't wanna l-lose her—"

"Hey, hey, don't say that. You aren't going to lose her, dude, she's your best friend. What makes you think you're gonna lose her?"

He shrugs, "W-W-We aren't talking. It took her a week t-to be able to look me in the eyes again. I think s-s-s-she regrets it. I d-don't blame her f-for it if she does, I get it, but how the fuck are we supposed to be n-n-normal again?"

The last "normal" moment they shared was on the drive home the diner. They listened to music, talked about stupid shit that didn't matter, and she even held his hand. His arm was draped lazily on the center console with his palm facing up, as if daring her to reach over, and she didn't hesitate. In fact, she later wrapped her arms around his, hugging him with one hand still interlaced in his, and leaned her head on his shoulder. Feeling her embrace made it easier to breathe, to exist without the constant ache in his heart getting in the way and ruining it all. He doesn't need her to make the pain go away, that's his responsibility...but he'd be lying if he said she didn't help.

When she waved goodbye through the car window and made her way up the walkway to her porch, he watched in silent longing and wondered. He wondered what it'd be like if things could always be that way, if they were together in the way that counted. It's not that he didn't value the intimacy they shared that day, he did, but he dreamt of something more, of the intimacy they shared when she laid her head on his shoulder on the way home.

Ben shuts their books abruptly, deciding that they both could use a break. There isn't a chance to protest before he's talking and trying to put the harsh truth in the gentlest tone possible. It wouldn't work if anyone other than him were saying it. Of all of their friends, he has a talent for being honest, but sweet about it.

"I think you're too hung up on the old normal. That doesn't exist anymore, and it's understandable to be upset about it, but you can't hang onto it forever. Sometimes, we just have to adapt to new situations, which you can't do if you don't communicate with her. You guys can't read each other's minds, you have to go ask her to talk," he says. "Trust me, I learned the whole communication lesson the hard way with Bev. Our relationship wouldn't have lasted this long if we didn't."

"Yeah, but s-s-she doesn't want to tuh-talk to me."

Just to have something to occupy his attention and stop him from fidgeting anxiously, Bill takes the notebooks, textbooks, and pencils and stacks them to set on the desk. His eyes avoid looking up at all costs as to conceal the emotion beginning to build in them.

That's another thing: she's the only person he can cry in front of. If it's anyone else, he'll send himself into a spiral of shame and embarrassment. Perhaps it has something to do with childhood, with George's death, being forced to stuff every emotion down in front of his parents, and preconceived ideas of traditional 20th century masculinity, because he knows it has nothing to do with the losers themselves. They wouldn't judge him, he knows that, but can't let himself be vulnerable. The only reason he can cry with her is because she once found him having a breakdown once and he couldn't hide it anymore. From then on, he started to open up more around her.

"How do you know that, though?" Ben asks.

He places the books on the desk and stops at the sound of his voice cutting through the white noise in his mind, not wanting to turn around. His hands grip the edge of the tabletop for support—whether it's emotional or physical, he does not know.

"She w-w-w-would have already t-talked to me if she wanted to, she probably j-j-just wants space."

Without missing a beat, he counters, "So, by your own logic, you don't want to talk to her either?"

Bill whips around, face twisted with confusion, and stares at his friend as if it'll get him any answers. On what planet would he not want to talk to her? He'd probably sell his own kidney for five seconds in the same room as her at this point in their silent standoff.

"What? Of c-c-course I wanna talk to her."

"Then why haven't you? You said it yourself, since she hasn't talked to you yet, that means she doesn't want to. And since you haven't tried to talk to her yet either, that can only mean..." Ben trails off, shrugging.

"That's n-not the same, I can't f-f-f-force her to talk to me—"

"I never said to force her, I'm saying that you won't know if you don't try. Communication goes both ways. If you try and she says no, that's different, but you can't say she doesn't want to if you haven't asked."

The room is blanketed in silence following his advice. Giving Bill the room to think about it, Ben stays quiet and casts his eyes down while he picks at a loose string on the hem of his t-shirt. As much as he wishes it didn't, what he said makes sense. He can't hold her to a different standard than he holds himself, that wouldn't be fair. But he wishes it were. He wishes it made sense, because avoiding her, although it is downright torturous, is easier than confronting everything they've run from.

He can't decide which consequence is worse: opening up to someone completely and becoming vulnerable, or losing her. In his heart, he knows which is worse, but talking to her is easier said than done. What happens if she says that what happened meant nothing to her? Could he continue pretending nothing happened like these past few weeks? But, on the other hand, she could just as easily reciprocate the feelings...and he'll never know if he doesn't ask.

"Y-Y-You're right, I know you are, I'm j-j-j-just-" a pause, "I'm scared."

Bill pulls the chair out beside him, slumping into it with a heavy sigh and forcing eyes not to water. Usually fear doesn't have sway over his actions. He has always been too reckless and borderline suicidal to care about it. But, once again, she changes things. If there's anything he does care about, it's his relationship with her. He'd do anything to preserve it.

They're both quiet for a moment before he finally looks up from the floor, meeting his friend's eyes with nothing but honesty.

"And that's okay. It's natural to be. But tell her tomorrow, don't torture yourself trying to wait it out."

-

Bill was standing over the desk when he heard it. It took a couple of tries to aim the pebbles correctly, but, on her third try, she found success.

After Ben left, the afternoon became quiet and lonely. The house was empty, his parents still not home from work, and he found himself wandering aimlessly from room to room in search for something to occupy himself. Nothing worked, obviously, since the only thing on his mind was her. His conversation with Ben was all about not obsessing over his worry, or her, but he couldn't help himself. As he leaned over his desk and ran his hands along the smooth wooden surface, he remembered everything. God, how he wishes he didn't remember.

He should have known that they were making a mistake when they decided to have sex. He should have anticipated this, he should have said no and pushed his stupid feelings aside for the sake of saving their friendship, but he didn't.

 _Why do I fuck everything up?_ Bill thought to himself, _I just couldn't leave well enough alone, huh?_

His eyes were glued to where she was pinned against the desk while they kissed, hovering his open palm over the area as if he could feel her phantom presence lingering, when the sound of pebbles hitting his window pane roused him from his flashbacks. Brows furrowed, he retracts his hand from where it hovers and stares in the direction of the noise until it appears again. One second passes...two, three, four—another pebble soars through the sky and into the glass, hard enough to make a sound, but not enough to damage the window.

Bill runs over and opens it without needing to confirm who it is. Usually, it's the other way around. He's the one who throws pebbles at her window when he needs someone to quell his loneliness, or when he wants to see her and can't create an excuse good enough to justify a ten o'clock visit. But he knows it's her. He felt it as soon as he held his hand over her spot on the desk, when her presence felt as real as it had that night three weeks ago for no good reason.

The night air is a shock to his system when a gust of wind blows through his hair, but it isn't too bad. It's only the wind that's chilly, not the air itself. When it stills, he relaxes.

His stomach tumbles and twists within him, nerves spiking with anticipation of what she has to say about their complication relationship and what happened, but it all screeches to a half when he sees her. Face streaked with tears, mascara wiped beneath her eyes, Y/N looks up at him, and no words are necessary before he's slamming the window shut and scrambling to go downstairs.

Bill's fingers tremble as he loosely laces his beaten down Chuck Taylor's. The fact that she came here in the middle of the night should have been an immediate red flag, but he was too busy pondering their situation to notice the distant alarms sounding off in the back of his mind. A part of him shuts down entirely in the wake of what he just saw. All he knows is that she's crying in his front yard at one in the morning, and he will do anything possible to make it better.

Only stopping again to grab his backpack off the edge of his mattress, he practically skips steps on his way down the stairs. His parents waking up isn't a worry at this point, it isn't as if they'd care anyway. Right? They never care about the good things he does, so why start caring when he sneaks out at one in the morning? Tunnel vision, as it always does, prevents him from seeing anything but her.

The door shuts behind him, whether it's quiet or loud, he has no idea, and the distance between them is crossed in a matter of seconds. His backpack is tossed aside, and their bodies ache with the force of their desperate collision, like two trains crashing at an intersection.

Y/N throws her arms around his neck, and he feels her body shudder with every quiet cry she makes into the front of his shirt.

"I'm sorry!" She cries incoherently, but he somehow understands, "I didn't know where else to go and I know we haven't-"

Immediately, he pulls her closer and shakes his head, dismissing the apology before she can fully get it out. They can talk about their messy relationship some other time, but when one of the losers has an emergency like this, whatever drama or conflicts that are occurring within the group are no longer relevant. It's an unspoken rule of the group, especially between them. One of his hands rubs up and down her upper back comfortingly while his arms squeeze her like a vice.

"I-I-It's okay, it's okay—J-Just try to breathe, alright? You don't huh-have to ap-p-p-pologize."

There's a part of her that wishes she were able to speak through her sobs and pants to explain everything in detail, but she doesn't waste her breath trying. If she does, he'll tell her to stop to breathe anyway. The run here, paired with the constant crying, stole every breath of air from her chest and forced her into hyperventilation. Perhaps sprinting here while she was already short of breath was a terrible idea, however, she had no other choice. After hearing the news, there was nowhere else she go.

He was the closest thing to a home she could think of.

After a moment of taking in somewhat deep breaths, she breaks her silence by pulling away and pleading, "Please," her voice broke, "Take me somewhere, I can't be here right now..."

-

Bill's hand gripped the steering wheel tightly, roughly an hour and twenty minutes later, as they pulled to a stop in an unfamiliar parking lot she has never seen before. It's the farthest from their town that she has ever been before, and everything they have passed was an exciting sight to witness. So, it's safe to say that taking her all the way to Acadia was a sufficient distraction.

As soon as she asked him to take her somewhere, the wheels in his mind began to spin, and it only took a moment for him to decide. He told her to wait in the car for him while he grabbed something. Well, somethings. After hurrying back upstairs with his backpack, he made a beeline for his closet and pulled everything they needed from the tidy corner it was stowed away in. Backpack filled to the point of being unable to close it, he crept past his mom and dad's room and back down the stairs until he was back beside her.

It took a while for her to come back to him from wherever it was she went in her panicked state. Even after she initially relaxed, she didn't volunteer any information or context, but he didn't want her to if she wasn't ready. That's how they work. If one of them has something on their mind that they're not yet ready to say, the other will wait patiently, even if the anticipation is killing them inside. That mutual respect is what makes him feel so comfortable around her, so he didn't dare push her to speak before she was ready.

Instead, they sat in silence. Content to be in each other's presence, they didn't ask questions or pry for answers about the weeks-long radio silence between them, they simply existed together and let the quiet night carry them away. The only sound was the radio playing a song about a witch, somewhat loud, somewhat not, through the speakers around them.

And it took a lot of self control to not stare at her every few seconds. He only allowed himself a glance every so often once he knew that only miles of empty road stretched ahead. Whenever he turned his head, trying to be subtle, his heart leapt at the sight of her. Her head was resting back on the edge of the rolled-down window, legs stretched out in front of her and rested in his lap. The sound of her humming to the music accompanied her teary eyes, staring up at the star-flecked sky as her hair was blown wildly by the wind. His fingertips absentmindedly traced little patterns on her legs the drive here, but always kept it platonic and respectful.

She has grown used to sexual partners, male or female, feeling entitled to her after one encounter together, yet Bill...he still looks at her the same way he always has. Partly, she blamed her ignoring him on the fact that she knew he was terrified of opening up about his feelings for her. However, she could no longer deny how terrified she was. In her mind, she rationalized it by him being afraid, but it was because she was too.

The walk from the parking lot to the beach was silent too, much like the drive, and their hands brushed on the way down the staircase. This time, he had the courage to reach over and grasp hers.

Y/N is stretched out comfortably on the blanket he laid on the dry sand, far enough from the gently crashing waves to avoid getting wet, while he zips his near-empty backpack up. Half of its contents were the blanket they're laying on and the extra clothes they're wearing. It's not cold enough out to freeze them, but enough to raise goosebumps without the extra layers, so he brought sweatshirts and thick socks just in case. The stuff they bought at a 24-hour convenience store sits undisturbed in the space between them, except for the small container of fruit she's been picking at since they got here.

He watches, not trying to hide his glances now, and his face softens at the sad look that lingers over her features. Just as he's about to ask if she'd like to talk about it, she opens her mouth to speak.

"I'm moving away," Y/N says, staring ahead at the ocean. "That's why I freaked out...my parents sprung it on me in the middle of dinner, then I left for my room and sat there on shock for a while. It took a couple hours to sink in, but, as soon as it did, I started panicking and crying and...that's why I ran to find you."

A moment of looming silence passes between them, and Bill is too stunned to speak.

Moving? The first thoughts that come to him arrive in rapid succession, not giving him the chance to sort through them or think clearly before his heart begins to pound. Y/N has been living in Derry for years, yet now her parents have decided they needed a change in scenery? It's only a few months until graduation, too, it doesn't make any sense to uproot her life before such a major milestone.

She is watching closely for his reaction, but all she finds is a blank, surprised expression. He's unnervingly quiet, which, in Bill language, means he is losing his mind. After years of friendship, she has become well-versed in his expressions and cues, so his displeasure is clear to see. She's not entirely sure he knows he's gone radio silent either, it seems like he's frozen and doesn't even register what's happening.

But he does, and his tone is pleading when he asks, "W-W-Why are you moving?" Bill's face twists with sadness and the expression tugs on her heartstrings, "I d-don't understand. You've l-l-li-lived here s-since we were seven, Y/N, what happened?"

For the duration of the ride here, she tried making sense of it all. Between the concept of moving far away from everything and everyone she holds dear to the complicated relationship she is navigating with him, she tried to understand everything and failed miserably.

Nothing makes sense, but, then again, not everything has to. It's hard for her to accept, but there will never be a time in life where she has everything completely figured out. There will always been a new surprise or upsetting thing to knock her on her ass again and that's okay. The farther they drove from Derry, from her parents and every tumultuous emotion left behind in that house, the calmer she grew.

With his fingers tracing shapes along her leg while she lounged across the front seat of his car, Y/N tipped her head back and looked to the stars, wishing they'd answer her endless questions. But she found herself distracted from her questions, instead drawn to the beauty of the night sky and how clear it appeared.

"My mom got offered a better position and salary in California last week, I didn't even know she was applying in other states, but they just told me tonight. They want to move next month, so I only have a few weeks."

It's especially beautiful here, she supposes, with the stars shining above the crashing waves. There was only a couple people here when they arrived, but now they're alone. And, when their eyes meet, she can't help but want to scoot over, close the distance between them, and embrace him. If not for her own sake, then his, because he looks like he could use a hug right about now.

"California? That's three t-t-t-thousand m-miles away."

"I know..." she says.

They're still holding each other's gazes. Their eyes are met with more intensity than either of them can bear before he turns away to look ahead at the water. Light shimmers over the dancing waves in shafts of bright moonlight, bobbing up and down with the shy tide and illuminating the landscape around them with its reflection. It's peaceful without others around, especially at such a late hour. Whenever he comes here, there are always others.

"Do you want to go?"

Somehow, a part of her does. It's a new place with new experiences to be had and paths to be taken after a life spent in Derry, but, on the other hand, how could she? Even disregarding the stupidity of leaving before graduation, this life is all she has ever known and leaving it seems out of the question. The reason she began to panic and sob was because she can't decide how to feel. Everything is here, and she cannot believe she wasn't given more time to think this over.

She picks up a strawberry, feigning interest with it, and picks the leaves from the stem so he won't see her shaking hands. Will he be offended if she says yes? Or maybe? Or no? Will he be offended if she tells him the truth, that one of the stupid, main reasons she wants to stay is him? Will he be offended that she'd deny wanting to leave Derry for him?

"No?" a sigh, "Maybe, I'm not sure. Part of me wants to because I've only ever lived here, and one other place, but I was too young to even remember much. But, there's also a lot keeping me here."

This makes him furrow his brows. A lot keeping her here? The only thing keeping her here is the fact that her family owns a home in Derry...that they're about to sell to move to Los Angeles where her mother can receive a better job position and salary. There is, quite literally, nothing that is tying her down to the East Coast.

In his peripheral vision, he can vaguely see her popping the now stemless strawberry into her mouth.

"What's k-k-keeping you here?"

She tries to play it cool but ultimately fails. If there are only a few weeks left before she possibly never sees him again, what's the point in hiding anything? Where had that ever gotten them? All it did was make them waste weeks of precious time they could have spent together instead of apart. He deserves to know how she feels before they're separated.

She sits up abruptly, adjusting her position so she faces him instead of the ocean. There's a long pause between them.

"I owe you a conversation"—his heart stops beating for a second at the casual mentioning of what he's been waiting for for weeks—"I promised you we'd talk about what we did, but trying to figure out what to say has been so much harder than I imagined it would be. Then my parents dropped the news and I couldn't think about leaving without telling you I—"

Bill asks again, very quietly, "W-What's keeping you here?"

It's at this moment that she knows he knows. He knows she's in love with him.

They have had many solemn conversations about what comes next after Derry, conversations where they accepted the fact that the Losers' Club will one day be apart, but they never let themselves accept what would happen if they were apart. As friends, they're all happy for each other. When Ben got his college acceptance letter, they were happy. Sad that he would have to leave them, but still excited for what the future would hold for their friend. This, though? It's different. They still have so much to figure out between them before they go their separate ways.

"It's you."

She wants nothing more than to close the distance between them, but must say what has been weighing her down for three weeks straight. The sleeve of his sweatshirt hangs a little to long on her arm and she toys with the edge of it to distract herself.

"You're what's keeping me here," she continues, voice stuffy from her sudden crying, "and you know that, I know you do. I want to go to California, but there's so much I haven't said or done yet. I thought I'd have more time..."

His eyes are glossy with tears.

"Y/N, I d-d-don't wanna huh-hold you back—"

"You won't! I'm still gonna move whether you are or aren't in the picture, but that doesn't change the fact that I love you! And not in the way that the Losers always say it to us as friends, I _love you_ , love you."

For a second, it's only silence. It's clear to see him processing everything she said, unable to get it through his head that this is reality, not another one of his dreams. But when he does, there's no stopping him from crossing the space between them to kiss her.

One of his hands cups her cheek while the other shoots out to steady her by keeping a strong, but gentle grasp on her waist. He was too eager and made her lose her balance when they first collided, but amends it with the soothing touch of fingertips running along the length of her waist. Their mouths press together harshly, so unlike their previous kisses, and he can taste the saltiness of their tears on her lips.

The sounds of her sharp gasps and pants through it all make him hold her tighter, wanting to be as close as physically possible. And she doesn't protest when he guides her onto his lap. His hands leave their previous positions to slide her closer by her thighs, settling one leg on either side of him before she can register the movement.

The last time they were in a position like this, they were in his room. It was after they had sex and were still tangled up together, panting, while coming down their highs. Her index finger traced the peaks and valleys of his collarbones while he prayed to anyone that would listen for the moment to never end. They were, and still are, on borrowed time. He's still praying.

"I love you," she repeats.

He leans in again, this time softly, to peck her lips, delighting in the content little moan that escapes her when they reconnect. The hands cradling his face hold him there for another moment longer than he intended the kiss to last. It seems that she's praying too.

"I kn-know," he whispers, the tip of his nose nudging hers, "I love you too."

She's kissing him again before the last syllable is out.

Neither of them knows how long it has been by the time they pull away, just slightly, to breathe. She was already crying and breathing heavily when he first kissed her, so she takes the moment of separation to catch her breath. Her hands reach up to hold his face, one thumb poking out into the limited inch of air between them to caress his red, kiss-swollen lips. They're soft, wet with his saliva, and she wants to ingrain the image of them into her mind forever.

How will she ever make herself leave him? After all they've been through to make it to this moment, after all the courage it must have taken him to open up to her, how will they cope with what comes next?

They aren't foolish enough to believe they can sustain a long-distance relationship, they know it will never work from opposite ends of the country, but wish it could. Part of not wanting to hold her back has to do with relationships too...California is a different place with different opportunities and, more importantly, new people. Thinking of her with anyone else makes him more jealous than he can express, but he doesn't want her to miss out on connecting with people she can actually be with because of him. If there's someone else she'll love, he doesn't want her to suppress it like they suppressed their love for each other.

The truth is, they've had all the time in the world. They don't need more of it, they simply wasted it.

After a moment of peaceful quiet, he says, "I know w-we have a lot to t-t-t-talk about first, but I need you to promise me s-something."

Y/N pulls away from him completely, bracing her hands on his shoulders, and nods.

"Promise that f-from now until you l-l-leave, we won't talk about you moving. We'll j-just enjoy it instead of being sad the whole t-t-time," Bill tightens the arms wrapped around her, "I don't care if it's only for a few weeks, I w-w-wanna be your boyfriend while I can."

Instantly, she agrees and captures him in a bone-crushing hug to whisper in his ear, "I promise."

Of all the times she pictured the moment where he would ask her out, she never thought of anything like this. Maybe she should've asked him instead, before all of this. Who knows if he would have been ready for that kind of thing, since, after all, it took long enough for either of them to admit it. But she doesn't want to regret anything. Like he said, spending the remaining weeks they have to make up for the past years in sadness and regret is not wise. She wants to remember their love with fondness, not look back on it and realize they spent the little time they had left feeling sorry for themselves.

Thankfully, the rest of their time at the beach passes slowly.

They spend hours laying together, cuddled up beneath the stars, talking about what they've kept silent for years. They talk about everything, from the first inklings of romantic interest to the day she asked him if he wanted to have sex. They talk about that day a lot, actually, sharing every thought that went through their heads and every word they wished they could've said in the moment. And it turns out that she was just as desperate to tell him how she felt as he was.

He spent that encounter trying to keep himself from speaking and ruining the moment by confessing his feelings, only to find out that she was doing the exact same thing. Apparently, it was how he looked at her that made it so difficult. Everything was fine and she held herself together perfectly until he looked at her a certain way, and that was when she knew. It hit her all at once that she loved him.

The drive home passes by fast. This time, she lays with her head resting on his lap and drifts off to sleep. He has to carry her out by the time they pulled to a stop in front of his house. He would've taken her home, but she asked him if she could stay with him as they walked back to the car from the beach and he couldn't refuse. Even as he had to tiptoe past his parents' room with her asleep in his arms, he doesn't regret saying yes. The first ten or so minutes after reaching his room is quite nerve-wracking and he spends every second of it hoping they don't wake up, but it's worth it.

However fleeting they may be, he treasures these moments and keeps them safe in his heart as he keeps himself awake as long as he can stand. His body is begging him to give in to the exhaustion, but he fights it. Instead, he savors the warmth of her body draped over his and counts every rise and fall of her chest.

The sight of her snoring softly beside him is enough to convince him that he'd endure another three years of silent longing and sadness to be here with her. It's comforting to know that, no matter what, everything will be okay. Even if they aren't together forever, at least they'll have once had each other...Isn't that enough?


End file.
